


The Decline and Fall of the House of Malfoy, Part I: In Search of Death Eaters

by TheChroniclerofMalfoy



Series: Decline and Fall of the House of Malfoy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon - Book, Eventual Romance, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-05-14 06:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 100
Words: 274,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5733388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheChroniclerofMalfoy/pseuds/TheChroniclerofMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he goes to sleep after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry has a terrifying vision of the future. When he wakes up in the present, everything starts going wrong. </p><p>After falling out with the DA, he takes Draco Malfoy prisoner and sets out from Hogwarts to hunt down the remaining Death Eaters. But when forgotten memories of the past surface, Harry faces a truth more dangerous than Death Eaters and more threatening than Voldemort himself.</p><p>Draco Malfoy is a liar, and a failure, and he’s secretly in love with Harry Potter. Sir knew all of this, but he died in the Battle of Hogwarts. And even though Sir is dead, Draco still wants to make him proud. He wants to make Potter see the lies he’s been told about the wizarding world. And he wants to be near Potter, even though Potter hates him. </p><p>So Draco agrees to lead Potter to the Death Eaters. But Harry Potter will never, ever stop hating Draco Malfoy — especially after the terrible mistake Draco made last year. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Was Well

**Author's Note:**

> This story is Epilogue non-compliant and the story picks up immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts. It is alternating POV. This story is based on the canon of the books, not the movies. 
> 
> Part I is now complete. 
> 
> Due to other writing commitments, I wasn't able to write Part II in 2017. But I have not abandoned this series and plan to start writing Part II soon.

**Harry**

 

_All was well._

He woke with a start. It was dark. He was drenched in cold sweat. Fear gripped his heart like a vice. Someone was shaking him awake.

"Harry, wake up!" The voice was loud, enthusiastic, "Come on, mate!"

A chorus of male voices joined in with "Yeah!"s and "Come on, Harry!"s and he realised there was a whole group of people gathered around his bed.

He sat up, heart racing, clutching his wand.

_I'm surrounded._

A blow to his shoulder and he leapt, flew through the air and tackled the attacker. They bowled over and landed on the floor.

"Oof!" The attacker huffed, "Aww! Harry! Gerroff! What are you doing?"

_Ron._

He rolled off him. A light came on. He looked around. He was in his dormitory. He had tackled Ron to the ground. Seamus and George were looking down at him.

"Blimey, Harry," George laughed, "what were you dreaming about?"

_I was..._

_I was old..._

Seamus laughed. "Still fighting Voldemort is his sleep. Good lad!"

_No... there was no fighting._

_Everyone was... happy._

Then he was being pulled roughly to his feet, clapped on the back, and they were marching him out of the dormitory. "What time is it?" He blinked as they emerged into the bright lights of the landing outside the dormitory. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Er...hour'n a half? Two hours?" Ron had an arm wrapped around him. He caught a scent coming off Ron - he'd smelled it when he'd woken up, but it hadn't processed.

"Have you been drinking?" He asked Ron, and they all roared with laughter. He was being marched down the steps to the common room and he could hear, getting louder all the time, the noise of a crowd, strains of music.

"We couldn't let you sleep through the party of the century," George said, "this is your day, Harry!"

Someone pushed a cup into his hand.

"And Harry mate," Ron said, looking at him with bloodshot eyes and grinning, "you won't believe who we caught."


	2. The Gryffindor Boy's Showers

**Draco**

 

The first thing he noticed was how unbelievably good-looking Potter was. The second, that a wand was being jabbed into the soft skin under his jaw, which was already swollen and tender, and it hurt quite a bit. And third, that the magical cords binding his wrists really weren't going to budge an inch.

"Why are you here?" Potter growled, digging the wand in deeper.

He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

_Spare me the "bad Auror" routine, Potter..._

"Ask your minions. I told them before they threw me in here."

Potter shoved him, hard, and his head cracked against the tiles. He couldn't stifle a gasp of pain, or miss the satisfied look in Potter's eye that followed.

"Witness," he winced, "the bravery of Gryffindor."

Potter's eyes widened in anger and he saw him raise his wand as if to strike, then paused, and let it fall to his side. He sighed. "They told me that you want protection. That you'll give evidence against the other Death Eaters."

He nodded.

"And what's that?" Potter asked quietly, "the cunning of Slytherin?"

"Call it what you like, Potter. I'm here, I'm willing to help you catch the baddies...what more do you want?"

Potter shook his head. "You're disgusting."

He raised his eyebrows at Potter. "Really."

Potter stared at him for a moment, then folded his arms and said, "Yes. You're a vain, self-centred, selfish  _coward_."

" _Vain_?" He felt rather offended.

"You wouldn't be here if your side had won," Potter said, eyes boring into him. "You've come crawling in here, tail between your legs, because  _we_  won. You've come to make friends with the stronger side, because you think we can protect you. Just like a typical bully."

" _I'm_ a bully?" He breathed incredulously.

_Who's the one with the wand, and who's tied to a shower tap here, Potter?_

Potter didn't seem to hear. "Voldemort didn't like your father. He didn't like  _you."_

"And how  _that_ wounded me," he drawled, "considering my passion for noseless, old bald men."

Potter definitely wasn't listening. "And you didn't respond to Voldemort's calls to fight. You stayed safe and sound in the castle where no-one could hurt you. He noticed that, you know. I'm sure he wasn't the only one who did."

"If it was so safe in the castle, Potter," he sneered with all the sarcasm he could muster, "why did I see so many corpses in there?"

_Potter noticed my disobedience to the Reptile, though._

He consoled himself with that thought. At least one thing had gone right in this bloody fiasco.

"My point is... I doubt you'd receive a warm welcome if you went back to them now." Potter's eyes were taking him in, lingering on the bruise on his jaw, his wet hair and damp clothes. "You  _need_ us now, Malfoy. You need  _me_."

_Firecalling Captain Obvious..._

_Why do you_ think _I came here, Potter?_

_It wasn't for the sparkling conversation, that's for sure._

But the way Potter's eyes were raking over his sooty and dishevelled features like he was a roach on the floor was just too much after the night he'd had.

Sir had always told him that the only way he'd made it as an undercover agent for twenty years was not talking back.

_Well, respectfully, Sir, screw that._

"Potter, I  _need_  you like I need a barbed butt plug."

Potter looked shocked. "Merlin's  _beard_ , Malfoy. When the  _Death Eaters_ don't want you, it might be a sign that you need to take a look at your people skills."

_Oh, that's rich._

"Wow. Prophecy child, boy wonder, Quidditch champ, saviour of the Wizarding World... And  _therapist_  too? Cripes. This is my lucky night."

Potter just looked at him pityingly. "You're the biggest coward I've ever met. Your fellow Death Eaters were bad people, but they were fighting and putting their lives on the line for what they believed in. They showed loyalty, even if it was loyalty to evil. You're loyal to no-one but yourself."

_That is the most fucked up morality I've ever heard._

He gave Potter a pointed stare. "Harry Potter. Death Eater empathiser."

Potter rolled his eyes. "I don't care about  _them_ , Malfoy. It's the  _principle_  of the thing."

_Oh my Hecate. We're talking principles now?_

He felt his cheeks going hot. "You know fuck all about my principles, Potter. I'm loyal to my family. That is all."

Potter gazed at him. "And that's why you're here to sell them to the lowest bidder?"

 _He doesn't know what he's talking about, Draco_.

It was as if he could hear Sir's voice in his mind, speaking in that even tone that always calmed him down.

_Don't talk back, remember that, Draco._

But then suddenly all he could see was Sir's body lying on the floor, his eyes open and staring, his face a house where the windows had gone dark forevermore.

A red veil descended over his vision and his heartbeat sped up. He had to bite back the impulse to crack his forehead into Potter's so close in front of him.

_Don't talk back, Draco. Just hold your tongue._

Sir lying on the floor, and his father picking him up and holding him in his arms. His father's whole body shaking while Sir's open, staring, dead eyes gazed at the ceiling…

He smiled painfully around his swollen jaw and spoke slowly. "My parents can defend themselves. Unlike some people's…"

His face exploded. Or at least, that was what it felt like. His head cracked against the wall again and he was seeing stars. A ringing pain was resonating in his jaw. Potter had punched him.

"I  _died_ for them." Potter spat, his eyes wide and his mouth split into a rictus. "I  _died_."

He stared into Potter's eyes, which looked very large in his face. Potter's two black pupils became the focal point of the universe. Emerald green boring into his soul. He felt like he wanted to cry.

"You're not the only person who's died, Potter, alright? Just the only one who's come back to life."

_See, Sir? That shut him up._

Potter turned and started walking away.

_Wait. Wait-_

"Potter," he said.

Potter kept walking.

"Potter!"

_Come back, dammit!_

Potter kept going.

The door slammed behind him. The sound echoed across the tiles and then all was silent.

 _Shit_.


	3. Potter Is Our King

**Harry**

 

"How was he?" Ron asked with a smile as he closed the door to the showers behind him.

He shrugged.

Ron laughed. "It was Lee Jordan's idea to put him in the showers. Give him a good soaking. I was all for stripping him down, but Neville said no."

_You're not the only person who's died._

"Why didn't you wake me?"

Ron frowned. "We just did."

"You should have woken me as soon as he was captured," he snapped in irritation.

_Just the only one who's come back to life._

"Alright, sorry, Harry. You'd just gone to bed. We didn't want to disturb you."

He shook his head. "Never mind. Where are the others? I want to speak to them."

"Just over there," Ron said, gesturing with his beer bottle toward the crowded common room, where he could see Hermione and Ginny standing together.

Catching sight of Ginny brought images from his dream, fragmented and misty, to the forefront of his mind.

 _I was_ married  _to Ginny..._

"No," he said, frowning. "The other Death Eaters."

Ron gulped down a mouthful of beer and wiped his mouth. "Huh?"

"The  _other_  captured Death Eaters?" He said, feeling a pinprick of annoyance at Ron's slowness.

"I, er-dunno, Harry," Ron said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and guiding him into the party and toward Hermione. "Come and have a drink, mate."

The common room was packed with young people. It looked like the whole of Gryffindor House was here. He recognised students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, too. The music was loud, so loud Ron had to shout to be heard over it. There was a huge banner strung up on one wall that read:

GRYFFINDOR ~YOU-KNOW-WHO IS DEAD - GET OFF YOUR HEAD~ PARTY

And another one on the opposite wall:

ALL HAIL HARRY POTTER, SAVIOUR OF THE WIZARDING WORLD (AND ALL AROUND NICE BLOKE)

"Here he comes!" Ron shouted, waving his hands like a mascot at a Quidditch match. "The man of the hour!"

Hermione and Ginny were standing in a crowd of laughing, shouting, chattering Gryffindor seventh years and alumni. Luna Lovegood, wearing her lion hat, was in a passionate liplock with Dean Thomas.

_Weird. That's just...weird._

"Harry! You're awake!" Hermione exclaimed as he and Ron approached. He noticed her cheeks were flushed.

"Yeah," he replied.

Hermione caught Ron's arm and pulled him toward her. He wrapped it around her shoulders, leaned down and kissed her. When he pulled away, they just grinned at each other for a second.

He looked away, feeling awkward, and saw Ginny. She was standing next to Neville, drinking from a cup.

_In the dream Ginny and I...had...a child._

_Children._

Ginny looked at him as if she was about to say something, then just smiled, a small tight smile. The dream image of her, and the feeling that had gone with it, surged up suddenly, very strong in his mind.

_I had a son...no, two sons. And...a daughter..._

He remembered the feeling of terror which had gripped him when he awoke from the dream. He dropped his gaze.

"Where's your drink, Harry?" Ron asked.

He remembered someone giving him a cup. He hadn't touched it, but put it down somewhere when Ron had told him they had Malfoy captive in the boys' showers.

"I don't know," he said, relieved to be able to turn away from Ginny.

"I'll get you a drink," Ron said. "You've earned it, mate!"

"Hermione," he said, and she turned to him with a beaming smile. "Where are the Death Eaters being held?"

The smile dropped from her face. "Death Eaters?" She breathed.

"Harry! Oi, Harry, come over here!"

Ron was standing by a big table set against the wall, groaning with platters of food. George stood at one end, a nozzle attached to a hosepipe in his hand, filling the cups of students who approached.

"Amazing, eh?" Ron said, gesturing to the spread. "The house elves sent this up."

He eyed the metal kegs lined up against the wall, one of which was connected to the pipe and nozzle in George's hand. "What are those?"

"Kegs, Harry me lad! Kegs of light, sweet, Merlin-blessed  _ale_."

"Did the House Elves send that as well?" He asked incredulously.

George laughed loudly. "'Course not. This is courtesy of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, via our friendly local barman at the Hog's Head."

_Weasley's Wizarding...Fred._

Fred was dead. He wasn't sure what to say, suddenly, to George.

_What do you say to someone whose twin has just died?_

George was red-cheeked, laughing and joking. He wasn't acting the way he'd expect someone to act when their twin had just died.

_Weird..._

"Hang on," George said, throwing a wink in Harry's direction, "this is for you, Harry."

George took a bottle from the table and handed it to Ron, who handed it to him. He looked at it. It was heavy. The glass was dark green, with a shiny gold label. The top had been dipped in wax and an elaborate seal stamped into the neck.

"Aberforth sent three of those," George said, "twenty-three year aged Hogmanath Firewhiskey. Phew! What I wouldn't give for a dram of that!"

He stared at the bottle in his hands for a minute. "Aberforth?" He said.

_I barely know Aberforth._

"Here, you open it and I'll pour for you," George said, "we can't have you pouring for yourself!

Obediently, he pushed away the wax and pulled on the cork until it unstoppered.

"Way!" George cried, and took the bottle from him, giving him a cup in return. George poured a generous glug into the cup. The liquid was golden. He sniffed it. The fumes that rose off it were enough to make him cough.

He cast another glance at Ginny. She was talking to Neville, their heads close together.

_My sons. They had black hair like me. And my daughter. She had red hair like Ginny._

Neville raised a bottle to his lips and drank from it. When Neville lowered the bottle, he saw that it was the same dark green as his whiskey bottle. It had the same gold label. The same wax seal on top.

_Aberforth sent three of those..._

"Now," said George, " _Sonorus_. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! BOYS AND GIRLS!"

George's magically amplified voice boomed out without warning, making him jump. The crowd thronging around him let out whoops and catcalls. "Raise your cups!" George's voice thundered, "In years to come wizards and witches everywhere will celebrate this day!"

A deafening chorus of cheering threatened to drown out George's voice, loud as it was. He felt people pressing close to him on all sides, hands and arms reaching out to him and patting him or clapping him on the back.

"Come on, Harry."

He recognised Dean's voice and then someone-several someones-had taken hold of him under the thighs and hips and he was being hoisted into the air. He was on Dean's and Seamus' shoulders, and when the crowd saw him the cheers and shouts got louder. The common room really was packed to the rafters. Every seat and sofa was covered. There were people packing the staircase up to the dormitories and lining the rail along the landing that looked down into the common room.

"To Harry Potter!" George's voice boomed out.

He saw George raise his cup, so he raised his cup and saw, a surreal sight, everyone in the room raise their cup or bottle as one and boom with one voice in reply, "To Harry Potter!"

And then a hundred hands lowered and a hundred throats tipped back and drank. And he did the same. It burned as it went down. He coughed, gasped.

A voice sang out then, breaking the silence. He recognised the melody. The crowd picked up the refrain like supporters at a Quidditch match. Feet pounded on the floor and hands clapped in a roar that grew and grew to a deafening pitch. Seamus and Dean began to march through the crowd. George's amplified voice sang out:

_Potter is our King_

_Potter is our King_

_He didn't let the Dark Lord win_

_Potter is our King_

And voices all around joined in. Hands were reaching for him, grasping, as he was paraded through the common room. Someone refilled his cup and he downed the burning liquid in one.

_Potter took it on the chin_

_Twice he slayed that dark old thing_

_Potter's crowned with light-en-ing_

_Potter is our King_

When he looked down he saw faces looking up at him, fierce, staring, chanting, crying.

_Potter is our King,_

_Potter is our King,_

_That's why wizardkind all sing_

_Potter is our King._

He had to look away. He couldn't bear the intensity of so many eyes on him.

_I should be happy._

_I'm free._

_I'm not._


	4. My Little Malfoy

**Draco**

 

_Potter was dead._

The spider had almost finished its web. It had started in one corner of the tiled shower stall, and swung to the opposite corner, and swung back.

_How long does it take a spider to spin a web?_

He didn't know. He'd watched because there had been nothing else to do except listen to the sounds of revelry in the Gryffindor common room get louder and wilder, and shift from one foot to another, and rub his wrists against the ropes that bound them until they chafed.

_Potter was dead._

Now the spider was almost finished, and his legs were starting to get tired. He couldn't sit down because his wrists were tied to the hot and cold taps at waist height. His arms and shoulders ached.

_Potter was dead._

But none of these things were among his worst problems. His worst problems were that he couldn't stop seeing Potter's limp, seemingly lifeless body in his mind's eye, and he'd thought he was dead, and he needed a wee.

He really,  _really_  needed a wee.

There came a point where he started to shout. He shouted for them to come and let him loose. He shouted and shouted and kicked the wall and shouted some more.

_Potter was dead._

But no-one came.

He stopped looking at the spider. All he could feel was his bladder, throbbing painfully, full to bursting, torturing him second by second, while through his mind ran the maddening ditty:

_Potter was dead, Potter was dead, Potter was dead._

"Eeeeeeeeeehhhhhh what have we here? What have we here?"

Peeves.

Peeves had just floated through the wall bum-first, and then turned upside-down and peered at him through splayed legs. "My little Malfoy, my my my..." He nattered, descending toward him in a series of slow backward rolls.

"We're up late, my little Malfoy," Peeves said. "Past your bedtime, isn't it?"

"Peeves," he ground out, barely able to speak, "you've got to get someone."

"Get someone?" Peeves said, then gave a cackling laugh. "Get someone, pet someone."

"Peeves," he breathed. The agony was almost too much to bear. "Peeves, do it. Or I'll tell the Baron."

"Oooooh-errr!" Peeves jeered, and floated right up close to him.

"Get your arse out of my face!" He snapped, and almost pissed himself right then and there.

"Shan't, can't, oh please don't rant," Peeves gibbered. "They've been playing your song, my little Malfoy. But Peevesy has one of his own, just for you."

And the spirit began, in a sing-song whispery voice:

_My little Malfoy, where has it been?_

_Into the showers to spy, little queen_

_My little Malfoy, what did it there?_

_Watched little Potter in his underwear!_

"Shut up!" He hissed, fiercely, but it was too much.

Even as humiliation froze his guts to ice, he was gasping in relief as warmth filled his trousers and ran down his leg and onto the tiles he was standing on. It went on and on. He had never felt so good and so bad at the same time.

Then it was over, and he was standing in a pool of his own piss, in wet trousers and robes which were quickly going cold.

Peeves had been staring at him in - shock? Fascination? Now he let out a great woop of laughter and shot toward the ceiling, shouting,

_My little Malfoy, pansy and pie_

_Pissed on the floor_

_And started to cry_

_When Potty's wee Potter came out to play_

_My little Malfoy said "Sod it, I'm-_

"Shut it!" He shouted, wishing with all his might that he had his wand so he could curse Peeves into ectoplasm.

"Peevesy will go and get someone to help my little Malfoy," Peeves said sweetly, and floated back through the wall.

"No!" He called after Peeves desperately. "Don't..."

He stared at the tiled floor.

_Most of it's run down the drain. Lucky I'm in a shower stall._

_Ha!_

Any second, Potter was going to run in here and see Draco Malfoy crying in a pool of his own piss.

_Potter was dead._

Last night, he'd thought he'd had the worst day of his life.

_I was wrong._


	5. I Know That Boy

**Harry**

 

The castle was silent and empty. It was day. Not dawn, not early. Full day. The sun was shining brightly. Birds were wheeling above the lake. A breeze, cool but humid and ripe with the scent of spring and life, blew in through the gash in the side of the building.

He felt as disoriented as if he had just taken a ride in a gyroscope. Shouldn't it be night? The middle of the night? He knew it had been four or five in the morning by the time it all ended, but... It still felt strange.

He wandered through the castle, encountering no-one, until he reached the doors of Great Hall. They were shut. He took hold of the handle of one of the great doors and pulled. It was heavy and took some effort to draw back enough that he could slip inside.

"Hello?" He called as he did.

It was as empty and silent as a tomb.

Sunlight was streaming in the windows. The enchanted ceiling showed a high blue sky with scudding white clouds. The tables were lined up in their usual neat rows, and all the chairs were neatly pulled up to them. He suddenly had a horrible fear that if he sat down at the Gryffindor table, a place setting would appear, followed by food from the kitchens.

_What in Merlin's name is going on?_

Just a few hours ago, he'd slain Voldemort in this room. He'd seen corpses lined up by the southern wall. He'd seen families huddled together for comfort as they mourned those they'd lost. There had been blood on the floor.

_Where is everyone? Where are the bodies? Where are the Aurors? Where are the Death Eaters?_

He sat down weakly on the nearest bench.

"Mr. Harry Potter?" The small voice startled him. He looked up to see Winky crouching nearby, bent over with her head touching the ground. She kept looking up at him, then putting her head back on the floor.

"Winky."

"Mr. Harry Potter," Winky said to the floor.

"Sit up, Winky."

She did so immediately. "Thank you, Mr. Potter. Thank you from all us elves."

Winky looked far better than she had the last time he'd seen her. She was wearing a freshly-pressed pinafore in a pink gingham check, with a matching hairbow tied around her bald head.

"Brunch is almost ready, Mr. Harry Potter," Winky said, still not looking him in the eye.

_Brunch?_

His stomach threatened to revolt at the very idea. "No-I'm...not hungry..."

It was all so surreal he began to wonder if he had never woken up from the dream at all. Maybe he was still asleep up in the Gryffindor dormitory. He pressed a hand to his forehead. He felt very sick all of a sudden, and his head began to pound.

"Harry?" Hermione slipped through the doors and came toward him. She was a little unsteady on her feet and he could smell the booze coming off her. She sat down next to him. "Wow, Winky, you did a great job in here."

"Thank you, Miss," Winky replied. "Breakfast-"

"Oh, please don't," Hermione said with a groan, and leaned her head onto her knees.

"Yes, miss." Winky said, sounding a little miffed, and disappeared.

"What happened in here?" He asked Hermione.

She slumped over, then stretched until she was lying down on the bench. "Wha'dyu mean?" She mumbled.

"In here! It was-it was..."

"Cleaned," she mumbled. "They cleaned."

"Where  _is_ everyone?" He asked, frustrated. He felt as if some kind of change had been made to the world while he slept and now everything was just a little bit different. A little bit off. A little bit wrong.

"Home," Hermione mumbled. She seemed to be falling asleep.

 _Home?_ Home?  _How could they leave?_

He looked around the spotlessly clean, normal-looking, terrifying Great Hall and felt as if he were going to be sick, or his head was going to explode, or both.

"Hermione, I had this dream," he said, and he remembered almost everything from the dream now. "I was old. I was married to Ginny. We had three children. We were putting them on the Hogwarts Express."

"Oh...Harry," Hermione mumbled, "that is so romantic. You have to tell Gi-"

"No!" He said. "You can't! You can't tell her. Okay? Hermione? You can't tell anyone about this. Hermione?"

There was no response.

Hermione was asleep.

He stood up and walked slowly through the Great Hall toward the far doors which led outside. He felt worse with every step he took. There, he had felled Voldemort. Here, Bellatrix Lestrange had fallen for the final time. Over there, Mrs. Weasley had lain on the body of her dead son. Here, the bodies of Remus and Tonks had been laid.

He reached the doors and pushed one open. Cool, fresh air poured over him. It was almost enough to nake him feel better. He took a step outside and he saw, in his mind's eye, figures rise up from the dream.

_Two sons and a daughter..._

He recognised the children, knew them. The girl was Ginny. Ginny the first time he had seen her, when she was ten years old and hadn't started at Hogwarts yet.

The oldest boy was his father, the cruel and cocky fourteen year old he'd seen in Snape's memory all those years ago.

And the youngest boy, clearly his father's favourite, came into focus like a blurry wash of colour turning to a crystal-clear image.

_I know that boy._

That skinny boy with the tufty wild hair, broken glasses and nobbly knees.

That boy had just turned eleven years old. He had left the Dursleys but hadn't been to Hogwarts yet. He was alone in the world, and he was scared.

_It's me._

He fell onto his hands and knees and was violently sick in the grass.


	6. Potter Was Dead

**Draco**

 

"Hey. Draco. Draco..."

He hadn't known he was capable of sleeping standing up. He opened his eyes to see Luna Lovegood standing in front of him, blinking slowly.

"Don't call me 'Draco'," he snapped.

"Peeves said you were in here," she said. Her vague sing-song tones were even more pronounced than usual. She was swaying slightly.

He'd waited, heart pounding, but no-one had come. Even in the cold, dank shower room, his clothes had dried by the time he'd given in to exhaustion again.

"You're drunk," he remarked. His throat was dry and he was very thirsty. His eyelids felt like sandpaper.

"I know," she said, and smiled widely. She looked him over, still smiling, and then wrinkled her nose. "You smell."

"How long have I been here, Lovegood?"

There were no windows in the shower room. No source of natural light. He felt as if he had been here for an eternity.

_This was a mistake. I should never have come._

Lovegood twirled a strand of hair around one finger. "It's lunchtime," she said. "But I've been awake all night."

"Lovegood," he hissed, "I've been here for hours. I'm thirsty."

She stared at him with her bulbous eyes.

"Lovegood. If you don't let me out, I am going to dehydrate and I am going to die."

_By Hecate, she's ugly._

"It takes longer than that to die of dehydration," she said.

"Is that the plan, then?" He deadpanned. "To kill me?"

She put a piece of hair in her mouth and sucked on it reflectively. "I don't know," she said. "I don't make the plans."

She turned and walked out of the room.

"Get the one who does, then. Get Potter!"

She paused, looked back and giggled at him. " _He_  doesn't make the plans. Silly boy."

The door closed behind her.

Silence descended.

"Fuck!" He shouted.

_Without Sir, I don't have a puffskein's chance in a manticore 's lair._

Without Sir, he was just sitting here waiting to be put on trial and thrown into Azkaban. Without Sir, he would never see Harry Potter again.

_I should never have gone through with this._

His arms hurt. His legs hurt. He really wanted to sit down, but he couldn't. He began to cry. He thought that if he gave in to tears, once he started, that would be it, and he would never stop. But after a minute or two, his tears dried up.

All he could see was Sir's eyes, staring at him, reproaching him.

_I hate Potter._

He hated Potter. He hated him so much. His name, his face, the way people talked about him. Hated Potter when he was gone, hated Potter when he was there. Every moment of Harry Potter was a prick at his sanity, a barb worming its way into his soul, driving him mad.

_I thought you'd died, Potter. I thought that was an end to you, Potter._

_Stupid, bloody, Hecate-cursed_ fucking _Potter._

_I saw Professor Hagrid carrying you and I thought…_

He was a prisoner, being tortured, in pain, soaked in his own piss and he'd wasted his chance to talk to Potter.

He didn't want to think about it, but his mind kept returning to it, relentlessly, over and over again, awful, til his heart was churning, sick and miserable.

_Potter was dead._

_My life was over._

He slouched there in the shower stall, his arms aching fiercely, his legs burning dully, his feet swollen and numb, chin slumped to his chest. He wished he could crumple to the floor. He wished he could cry. But he couldn't.

_Sir was right._

And now he couldn't hide from it any longer.

_You came back to life, Potter._

_I hate you._


	7. I Had The Dream Again

**Harry**

 

_All was well._

He woke with a start. It was bright, blindingly bright. He was drenched in sweat. Fear gripped his heart like a vice. Someone was shaking him awake.

"Harry! Wake up!" Ron was leaning over him.

_It's okay. It's just Ron._

He sat up, rubbing his face. "What is it?" He asked, feeling groggy and hot. He was on the grass. Outside. Near the castle.

_I had the dream again._

"I came looking for you and Hermione. You fell asleep out here, you muppet," Ron said with a grin.

_Ron had passed the driving test..._

He stood up, wincing in the bright sunlight. The headache just seemed to have gotten worse. "I need to go and make some firecalls."

"To who?" Ron asked him.

"Shacklebolt. The Order."

Ron frowned at him. "Why?"

"The  _Death Eaters_?"

Ron just looked at him, mouth open. He felt a surge of annoyance and pushed past Ron into the cool interior of the Great Hall, dark in contrast to the outside.

It looked normal now. It looked like it would have on any day in the last seven years. It looked as if nothing had changed.

_But it has._

_It has changed._

"Harry," Ron called after him.

He stopped, turned around.

"But," Ron said, "It's-it's-"

He was hot from sleeping in the sun, and very thirsty, and as he looked at Ron he felt a growing anger.

"It's over, mate."

"What d'you mean, it's over?" He asked, his tongue thick in his mouth.

"The—the war, Harry, mate. It's over."

He stared at Ron stupidly.

"Harry, you can stop fighting now. Okay? It's over, mate."

_No…it's not._

_It's not over._

_Don't you understand that?_

He didn't answer. He just turned and walked away, and when he heard Ron call after him, he started to run. He ran faster and faster, taking all the shortcuts he could think of, until he stopped hearing Ron's footsteps behind him.

He slowed to a walk. He was in the corridor leading up to Gryffindor Tower.

A scream rent the air. A long, drawn out, horrible sound.

His wand was in his hand and he was sprinting toward the portrait hole before it even registered in his conscious mind. The Fat Lady saw him coming and swung open without a word. He scrambled through the portrait hole into Gryffindor House.

The screaming stopped.

His breath sounded loud, rasping and harsh in the hush.

The common room was filled with people sleeping on every available surface. They were curled up in purple sleeping bags just like when they'd all slept together in the Great Hall. They were sitting up and rubbing their eyes or stirring restlessly under the covers, looking around fearfully, clutching wands, looking for the source of the sound.

He knew that sound, he realised.

_The Room of Hidden Things..._

He began making his way toward the boys' shower room as quickly as he could. He had to pick his way between sleepers. He looked down, trying not to step on anyone's hair or limbs. Some hadn't been roused at all, but were still sleeping. Their peaceful faces looked painfully vulnerable and innocent.

"Harry Potter..." a voice whispered. A very young-looking boy looked up at him with blue eyes. A tear slipped out of the corner of the little boy's eye and rolled down his temple.

_Lily. James._

_Albus Severus._

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the memory of the dream, and took the stairs two at a time. The shower room was ahead of him. He stopped and listened.

"Don't let that charm slip, Dean. He'll have woken half the House by now." Neville's voice was low and gruff.

He frowned, leaned closer to the door.

"Should we get Potter?" He could identify Seamus by his lilting accent.

"Yeah! And fetch Malfoy a glass of warm milk while you're at it," Neville snorted.

"Sorry..." Seamus muttered.

He pushed the door open silently. Malfoy was up against the tiled wall. Neville had a wand at his throat. Seamus held one arm, Dean the other.

"What d'you want to talk to Harry for, anyway?" Neville asked in a low voice, pushing the wand in where Malfoy's jaw was bruised. "Going to ask for a date?"

Malfoy kicked Neville right in the shin.

"Merlin's bollocks!" Neville grunted, as much in anger as in pain, and he hauled back and backhanded Malfoy across the face.

Malfoy grunted in pain. When he slowly turned his head back, his cheek was bright red. Malfoy's eyes fell on him, and the change in Malfoy's expression made the others turn around.

"What's going on here?" he asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Malfoy made some muffled sounds, but no words came out. He realised Malfoy's mouth had been jinxed shut so that he couldn't speak.

Neville eased his wand from Malfoy's neck. He noticed Neville cast a glance at Seamus, who cast a glance at Dean.

"Well?" He said, "what were you doing to him? Eh?"

"Hello, Harry," Neville said casually, as if there was nothing wrong.

The anger he'd felt in the Great Hall sprang up again, intensified. He pushed Seamus' hands off Malfoy's arm, and Dean and Neville fell back as well. "What is going on here? I heard screaming."

"He-he started screaming on his own, Harry," Seamus protested.

"He woke everyone up," Dean added. "So we had to shut him up."

"He was just trying to get attention," Neville said smoothly.

"He was asking for me," he said, looking at Neville. "Were you going to tell me that?"

"'Course," Neville said calmly in his new, deep voice. "Of course we were."

"Take the jinx off him," he told Neville, who raised his wand and muttered the counter-jinx.

Malfoy's lips unsealed and he gasped, sucking in great lungfuls of air.

The more closely he looked at Malfoy, the more the sick feeling of pity and revulsion grew in his stomach.

_Merlin, he looks awful._

Malfoy was slumped against the wall strangely, and he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His white hair was discoloured by smoke and dark clumps of what appeared to be blood. His jaw was swollen with a shadowy bruise.

_It stinks of piss in here, too._

He needed a place to put Malfoy.

_Somewhere he can't escape._

The dormitories were no good - and were presumably full anyway, if the common room was any indication. Then it came to him. "Head Boy's room," he said. "We'll put him in the Head Boy's room."

The others looked at him in surprise.

"What?" He asked. "There wasn't a Head Boy from Gryffindor this year, was there?"

"Er," Seamus said.

The silence stretched on.

_What is going on?_

Dean muttered, "...Neville..."

_Neville?_

He looked at Neville. "But..." he said, feeling confused, "You're not Head Boy."

Neville shrugged, a little red in the face.

He had that feeling again, from earlier, that everything had been subtly changed while he slept. "Are you even a  _prefect_?" He asked.

Dean cleared his throat. "There were no prefects this year," he said. "The Carrows got rid of them. Got rid of Head Boy and Girl."

"Yeah," Seamus piped up, "there was just their enforcement squad. Headed up by yours truly down here." He poked Malfoy's ribs with a toe.

"Okay," he pressed on, "So that room is empty. It should be big enough to hold any more we find skulking around the grounds as well."

"To be honest with you," Neville said slowly, "I don't see the point. He won't be here much longer anyway."

He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really? And why is that?"

Neville looked down at Malfoy on the floor and said, "Shacklebolt said he'd be here as soon as he could to pick him up."

He stared at Neville. Confusion gave way to anger, which picked up his thoughts and blew them into a hot, bitter whirlwind.

Staring at Neville, he appreciated now for the first time how much Neville had grown, physically.

His face looked different, wider and stronger. He was taller than him by almost a head. He hadn't lost his baby fat-the fat was still there. But now he was broad through the chest and arms and legs and neck.

_He's enormous._

"You spoke to Shacklebolt?" He said, finally finding his words.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "He asked me to," Neville said, shrugging again.

"Asked you to-?"

"Kingsley asked Neville to report on the situation here regularly," Dean piped up. "He's been doing it all year."

"Oh yeah?" He said, looking at Neville, "well thanks, Neville. I appreciate it." He tried to keep his tone light, kind. "But I'm back now."

He added after a moment, "You should have spoken to me first."

Neville was staring at the floor. His cheeks were an ugly red. After a minute he looked up and said, "I'll give you that, Harry. My room  _is_  the only secure one. He can use it until it's time for him to leave with Shacklebolt. I'll go and take my things out. I don't trust him with them."

Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Dean hurried out after him.

"He was just trying to help, Harry," Seamus said. He sounded upset. "Neville's...Neville's been great. He's..." and Seamus trailed off and then just turned and hurried after the other two.

He stood there, utterly perplexed.

_What in Merlin's name is going on here?_


	8. Because It's Always Potter

**Draco**

 

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Shacklebolt was coming for him. They were going to take him away. They were going to put him in Azkaban.

_Sir, where are you?_

_Sir, you're supposed to be here._

_Sir, you're supposed to protect me._

_Sir?_

Cold rage overtook his terror and he hated Sir, even more than he hated Potter.

_How could you leave me like this, Sir?_

_I'm about to be sent to Azkaban and it's all your fault._

He was sick of the sight of them, Potter and his Gryffindor Lightbunnies.

_So what if they take me away._

_So what if I fail._

He had always known he would fail at this.

_I'm not Sir._

_How could I be Sir?_

He didn't want this responsibility. He hadn't asked for it.

_I knew I would fail, and now here it is._

_I've failed._

If they took him away to Azkaban, he could escape — it couldn't be that hard — so many had done it in the past. Of course he'd never be able to show his face at home again. He'd be a stranger to his parents. He'd be on his own, in the wide world…

_I'd be free._

The movement of three people leaving the room and the door slamming behind him shook him from his reverie. He realised he was alone with Potter again.

_You're not the only person who's died, Potter, alright?_

_Just the only one who's come back to life._

His own words rang loudly in his ears. He remembered how he'd looked at Potter, how Potter had looked back at him.

_Why does it have to be Potter?_

Potter was the reason he was failing, was going to fail, had failed.

_Because it's always Potter._

He stared at the tiles. It was true. Nothing else mattered.

"Come on, Malfoy," Potter said, shattering his reverie.

If it had been someone else, he could have done it. He knew he could. But it was Potter, so he had failed.

"Potter," he said, and with a sense of detachment he heard himself saying the words, "you can't let Shacklebolt take me."

Potter stopped, looked at him. "What?"

He realised he was trembling. Terror was flooding through him and, hot on its heels, adrenaline. "You can't, you can't let him take me away."

"Yeah, I heard that, Malfoy," Potter said slowly, "but what I'm wondering is why, exactly, you think you can tell me what to do."

He looked up and met Potter's eyes. Potter had one hand on his hip, green fire in his eyes.

His heart fluttered.

_Oh my Hecate._

His stomach swooped again.

_He looks so...fucking...beautiful._

"No-one tells me what to do!" Potter shouted suddenly. "Got that?"

He felt totally transfixed, standing there in front of Potter.

_I'll never see him again._

Across a court room, maybe, in a few months' time. He'd be sneaking looks at Potter, his heart racing after months of not seeing him. Potter would barely notice he was there.

_After that?_

"Anyway, I need to speak to Shacklebolt.  _Now_."

_When will I see you?_

He pictured himself free in the wide world, master of his own destiny, walking down the street, stopping at a cafe. A bright day at the end of summer, birds wheeling in the clear sky. He sipped his coffee and read the newspaper. In the road, Muggle traffic rushed back and forth before a grand building where many, many Muggles were coming and going. A family emerged from a car, a mother, a father, and children. It was King's Cross station, he realised, and then he recognised the father. The jet black hair, the glasses. It was Potter. Potter took his children by the hand and shepherded them into the building. He hadn't seen Potter in years. Potter didn't notice him.

_I'll go on like this._

_But Potter will never think of me again._

"Please," he muttered.

"Sorry?" Potter said distractedly. He had moved closer and indicated him to step away from the taps so Potter could prod with his wand at the ropes that bound his wrists.

" _Please_ ," he said, louder.

_There is no freedom._

_Only Potter._

Potter stared at him. "What did you just say."

" _Please_ , Potter," he ground out, feeling his face grow hot. "Please. I can explain why you shouldn't-shouldn't send me to Shacklebolt. Just please give me a chance to explain."

Potter was staring at him again.

_What is he thinking?_

_What does he see..._

_...when he looks at me?_

His stomach began to fill with a sour feeling and his mouth was dry.

_I have to say it. Do it._

_It's this, or it's all over._

"Please," he said. "Please. Potter. I'm...I'm begging you."

He felt as if he might as well dissolve and run down the drain.

_That's all I am._

_That's all I am._


	9. My Mother's Eyes Are Not For You

**Harry**

 

"Please, Potter," Malfoy said. He sounded desperate. "Please. I can explain why you shouldn't-shouldn't send me to Shacklebolt. Just please give me a chance to explain."

He stared at Malfoy. Malfoy had been in his dream, too.

_He was going bald._

_And...he had a son._

_Scorpius._

Malfoy's son, that little white-haired boy, that dream figure, was very clear in his mind.

_No! It wasn't Malfoy's son. It was…_

That little boy was the first wizard he'd ever met, in Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions. He was small and slight, with a fall of silky white hair. He had his nose stuck in the air. He had silver eyes which raked over him and judged him and told him,  _you're nothing_.

He stared into those silver eyes now. Malfoy was leaning against the wall for support, trembling all over. He had no wand. He had no allies. He had nothing.

"Please," Malfoy said, "please. Potter. I'm...I'm begging you."

_You're nothing._

"Fine," he said finally.

*

The fireplace in Dumbledore's office was cold and after several minutes he still couldn't get a fire going.

Even with a spell and twists of lit paper, the wood just didn't want to burn. He cursed and threw the wand down, and wandered away, anger edged with panic building in his gut. He leaned his elbows on a table nearby, rested his head on it.

_Bollocks. Merlin's bollocking bollocks._

He stood up and looked at the portraits of headmasters and mistresses. Some were asleep. Some were absent from their frames. Dumbledore was there, asleep with his chin on his chest.

"Professor," he said. "Professor Dumbledore."

Dumbledore didn't stir. Just snored gently, his head nodding.

"Professor, wake up," he said. "Professor Dumbledore. Wake up!" He shouted. "Wake up!"

Nothing.

"I need to talk to you!" He bellowed. There was a chair nearby and he kicked it as hard as he could. It span away and hit the wall. The leg he had kicked was cracked.

"Temper, temper..."

He froze. He would know that arch, sarcastic voice anywhere. He turned around slowly.

From the gilt frame next to Dumbledore's, a frame that he could only assume had just appeared this morning, was a portrait of Severus Snape.

" _You_."

"Oh, is it?" Snape said, "I hadn't noticed. I'm grateful to you for pointing that out."

Snape was the last person he wanted to talk to right now. Even if it was just a painting of him, rather than the real thing.

"Aren't you gone?" He said angrily, not caring. It was only a painting. "You died. Even death couldn't get rid of you, could it?"

Snape's face froze into his most arctic look of disapproval and stared at him. He stared back.

_I'll stare back forever. I don't care. It's just a painting._

"You utter, undeserving brat," Snape sneered.

"Keep staring, you fucking pervert. All these years you've been staring into my eyes, storing up material for your wank bank. Haven't you?" He shouted as loudly as he could.

Snape stared down at him, his face a grimace of disgust.

"My mother's eyes" he said, pointing a shaking finger at the portrait of Snape, "My mother's eyes, and  _my_ eyes," he stabbed the finger at Snape's face with each word, "are  _not_ for  _you_. You have  _no fucking right_  to our eyes!" He kicked another chair so hard he hurt his foot.

Snape's mouth was pursed as tight as a cat's bottom.

"And you had no right to take her Patronus. How  _dare_ you?" He felt as if he was going to explode with rage. "I would never name my kid after you. I would rather  _die_ ," he shouted, " _die._  Do you hear me? I would rather become a monk. I would rather never have sex for my entire life. If I thought there was a risk of my having a kid with  _your_ cursed name, you know what I'd do? I would-I would-I would  _tear out my own scrotum_."

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Are you quite finished?" He asked in acid tones.

"No." He said. The fire had caught, now, and was burning brightly. He took the chair he'd just kicked, pulled it up to the wall, climbed up and wrenched the portrait off the wall.

"What-what are you doing, Potter?" There was an edge of uneasiness in Snape's voice.

"Giving you what you deserve," he said, and threw the portrait face-down onto the flames.

"Potter-Potter!" Snape shouted. "You won't get away with this! You ungrateful little scab!"

The oil paint and canvas caught fire immediately. He stared at it with grim satisfaction. "I don't want to be grateful to you," he growled at the portrait. "I'll never be grateful to you."

When there was nothing left but the frame, which dripped gold paint and smoked slowly, he took a handful of Floo powder from the mantlepiece and threw it on the flames. "Kingsley Shacklebolt!" He shouted, and shoved his head into the flames, right through the middle of the smouldering portrait frame.

An empty room lurched into view. It was messy, with clothes and possessions strewn everywhere. "Kingsley," he shouted. "Kingsley, it's Harry."

"Harry Potter?" A woman's voice. Hestia Smith appeared in the doorway, tying a dressing gown over a long nightdress. "Hello, Harry."

"Hestia," he said, "Where's Kingsley?"

"Kingsley? Why, he just left, Harry. He went to Hogwarts to apprehend a Death Eater. Neville called just a little while ago to let him know."

"Shit!" He exclaimed, and was about to leave when he paused, instead. "Hestia, where are the other captured Death Eaters being held?"

"The others?" Hestia asked, blankly. She had come and kneeled down in front of the fire.

"Yes," he said, "where are they? And who's been captured? What about the Malfoys?"

Hestia stared at him. "Why...Harry... There weren't any captured Death Eaters."

_What?_

"They were...they were all killed?" He asked.

"Many were killed. Some...escaped."

"Escaped?" He sat up, which made the world lurch sickeningly. "How many escaped?"

"Well...we're not sure. We're not sure how many were there in the first place." She said.

_Escaped!_

"Who's hunting them?" He asked. "Who's on their trail? Bill? Charlie?"

Hestia was looking at him, and he thought it was a rather strange look.

"Who's...who's looking for them?" He asked again, with a sinking feeling inside.

"No-one's looking, Harry," she said.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. "What do you mean?"

She looked at him, her washed-out blue eyes searching his face. He suddenly found that he hated her.

"The Dark Lord is dead," she said gently, and the tone grated on him.

He rolled his eyes. "Um, I know that. I'm sort of the one who killed him?"

She stared at him. There was a look of concern on her face.

"Are you alright, Harry?"

_Is she insane?_

"I'm fine," he said slowly, with what felt like infinite patience. "Now would you please tell me which Order members are hunting the escaped Death Eaters?"

"Well-none-none of them, Harry. The Order of the Phoenix has been dissolved."

He didn't say good-bye. He didn't say a word to her. He sat up, pulled himself out of the fire and scrambled backward, scrabbling for his wand. He got to his feet and lurched over to the window, looking over the grounds toward the gates, looking for signs of Kingsley arriving.

The gates were nothing but tangled clumps of metal, hanging off the hinges.

_No wonder they escaped._

He turned and bolted for the door.

_Malfoy._

If Kingsley had arrived while he'd been talking to Hestia, he hadn't a moment to spare in getting back to Gryffindor.

 _Malfoy is_ my  _prisoner._

The door flew inward right as he went to open it, and he fell backward onto the ground. Professor McGonagall stood there in her dressing gown.

_What is it with all the dressing gowns?_

_Is everyone just spending all their time in bed now?_

"Potter!" McGonagall jumped and pressed her hand to her heart. "What are you doing in here?"

He stood up hastily. "Have you seen Kingsley Shacklebolt?" He asked. "Is he here yet?"

McGonagall moved past him into the room. She had her nose in the air and was sniffing it. He realised the painting had let off some acrid fumes while it burned and some lingered still in the air.

"Yes," she said, "he's just arrived-"

He was on the stairs before she'd finished her sentence. He leaped off the last few steps, landed on all fours like a cat, and took off down the corridor.

"Potter!" He heard her shriek following him down the hallway, "Potter...!"

He ignored her.


	10. School's Been Blown To Pieces

**Draco**

 

The water was as hot as he could stand, filling the room with clouds of steam. He washed the shampoo out of his hair and started lathering his body with soap, scrubbing hard.

Normally he wouldn't have gone near Longbottom's private bath with a ten foot pole, but at this point he'd take anything.

_I feel like I just crawled out of a Flobberworm carcass._

The prolonged battle had left him reeking of the kind of sweat that only comes from fear, his robes covered in soot and blood, and that was  _before_  the pissing incident.

_And before I…_

It made him cringe just thinking of it.

 _I begged…I actually_ begged.

Maybe he should have just gone with Shacklebolt after all.

_Anything to have been spared that look of disgust on Potter's face._

He stepped out of the shower, dried himself and dressed, relishing the scent and feel of clean, comfortable clothes. Whatever he was going to experience in the coming days, he wasn't about to do it in his school uniform.

_School's out for summer…_

He smiled to himself, remembering the words to the song:

_School's out for summer_

_School's out forever_

_School's been blown to pieces_

The lyrics were so oddly, totally appropriate. He felt a real smile spread across his face, the first real smile he'd had in—days…no, weeks?

_Don't think about that._

He went over to the window and looked at the rather beautiful day which had formed outside. Chunks of masonry and rubble littered the grounds, and he could see the scraps of twisted iron which were what remained of the school gates.

_Blown to pieces indeed._

Schooldays were over, and so was the Reptile.

_I'll never have to kowtow to that slimy creature again—or his servants._

He wouldn't miss the servants. Oh, no. Those days were over.

And looking out at the May day unfolding outside the window, he felt happy, truly happy, for that.

_Brrrrrzzzzzzz….bbrrrrzzzzzz…..bbrrrrrzzzzzzz…._

His phone. His phone was vibrating.

He turned and ran to his weekender bag, rummaged until his fingers found smooth black plastic and extricated the device, with its small rectangular screen and rows of numbered buttons.

"Mum?"

"Draco. Are you safe?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"As you infer from my call, yes, we are safe. Your father and I made our escape unmolested. We have found a safe place to hide and carry out a reconnaissance."

"Good. Good, that's good, Mummy."

The constant low level of worry was always there, simmering at the edge of his mind. It was a relief to know they were safe.

"What news, Draco? Are you with Harry?"

"Yes, we're together."

"Thank goodness for that. Tell me everything."

"Well, mum, there hasn't been so much to tell so far. I went to Gryffindor straight after you left, to turn myself in. When I got there, there was a wild party going on—"

"What, this morning?"

"This morning! I think it started at about six and went on until almost noon."

"Quite," his mother sniffed, he suspected more in admiration than disdain.

"Some Gryffindors got hold of me, roughed me up a bit, but nothing too bad. They put me, er, in a room on my own. Harry was having a nap and he came to see me when he woke up. The rest of the morning he had to join in with the celebrations."

"And then?"

"Well, the party wound down eventually. And then Potter had words with the ones who'd captured me and insisted I be put in a more comfortable room. The Head Boy's, actually."

"Hm," his mother said approvingly.

"So that's where I am now. I'm just waiting for Harry to come back."

"Do you feel you are in any danger, Draco? Has anyone challenged Harry about your presence there?"

"Oh, I'm quite safe, Mum. I really feel Potter has them under control. I was a bit worried, ah, because of Sir, but so far it's going just fine."

"Be very careful, Draco. If anyone suspects, if there is even a shadow of a doubt—"

"Don't worry, Mummy. Everyone in the Light believes to their core that Potter and I are the very worst of enemies."

"Alright, darling. Call me when you are able. Good-bye."

"Bye, Mum."

He ended the call and buried the phone at the bottom of his weekender, underneath the spare clothes and other supplies.

_The very worst of enemies._


	11. Save The World, Get The Girl, Go Home

**Harry**

On the final approach to Gryffindor tower, he started passing students. Singly or in small groups, they were all hurrying, and all carrying or levitating trunks, bags and caged owls. They looked at him silently, with wide eyes, as if they were scared. None said a word. When she saw him approach, the Fat Lady swung open without asking for a password, without saying anything.

"Kingsley," he called as he climbed through the portrait hole, wondering what was waiting for him this time. "Kingsley!"

As he cleared the threshold and stood up and took in the scene, he wished he hadn't left. Wished he'd stayed in Gryffindor tower, not tried to call Kingsley at all. He hadn't been gone long, but who knew what had happened while he was away.

Since he'd woken up, he felt as if he was standing on shifting sands.

_Since I had that fucking dream._

_That nightmare._

The place was in uproar. Students were scurrying here and there, dragging satchels and bags, some still in the process of packing as they walked, dumping armfuls into open trunks. Many were still pulling on school robes and hats or chasing wayward pets, trying to coax them into cages.

He made his way through the madness, feeling a prick of annoyance every time some big-eyed child looked up and him and breathed, "Harry Potter!". One or two stopped dead in their tracks or burst into tears when they saw him approach.

"Kingsley!" He shouted over the din, "where is Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

No-one answered him, and he couldn't see Hermione or Ron or anyone else.

"Ginny!" He shouted. He had spotted her bright copper hair on the other side of the room. "Ginny!" He called again, edging closer. She must not have heard him, but he saw Seamus' face pop out of the crowd and make eye contact. "Seamus! Where's Kingsley?"

He edged around a pillar in the middle of the room and with the changed angle, he realised that Ginny and Seamus were standing in a knot of people surrounding-

_Kingsley._

Around him were George, and Lee Jordan, and Dean Thomas and Luna Lovegood and-

_Neville._

He walked closer. Kingsley was speaking to Neville. As he approached, Seamus said something and they all turned around and looked at him, silent.

He wondered what was wrong with them all, why they had those looks on their faces, until he realised that it was the same expression he'd seen on the faces of the young students. The ones who started crying when they saw him.

"Hello," he said, rather awkwardly.

There was a chorus of muttered 'hello's in reply, and no-one seemed to want to meet his eye. He ignored them and turned to Kingsley. It was such a relief to see him. His calm, strong presence had always reassured him.

"Kingsley, can I have a word?" He said, and jerked his head toward the stairs to indicate the dormitory, where they could talk alone.

Kingsley's eyebrows travelled high up on his forehead. "What's up, Harry?"

"I-er," he stuttered.

 _Can't he see I need to speak to him_ alone _?_

"I'll tell you," he said, a little annoyed, "when we get  _upstairs_."

Kingsley looked at the others and said, "Sorry, guys. I'll be back in a minute."

_Sorry?_

"No, no," George said, "go, please. Talk to Harry."

There was a chorus of assent from the rest of the group, and he felt a surge of warmth toward them. Only Neville, he noticed, was staring at the floor, his expression closed. And next to Neville, Ginny. She wasn't smiling or nodding and agreeing with the others. She had her arms crossed and she was staring at the floor just like Neville was.

 _Whatever_.

He didn't have time to think about Neville or Ginny and what kind of mood they might be in. He gestured to Kingsley and led him up the staircase to the dormitory. It took longer than usual, with children to climb over and around, and a mid-air trunk collision they had to stop and help clean up.

Finally he got Kingsley into the peace and quiet of the seventh-year dormitory and shut the door.

"Alright, Harry," Kingsley rumbled, "what's on your mind?"

"Hestia. Hestia Smith. You have to help her," he said urgently.

"What? What's happened?" Kingsley fell into a fighting stance, his wand out.

"I was trying to reach you," he said, "and I firecalled, but Hestia answered."

Kingsley, who had been scanning the room like a hunter, paused and looked down at him. "You tried to firecall me? When?"

"Just now."

Kingsley frowned a little deeper. "But Neville said he'd told you I would be here as soon as I could."

"Well, this couldn't wait. I needed to speak to you about the captured Death Eaters, but I got Hestia instead. And Kingsley," he lowered his voice, "I think there's something terribly wrong with her. Maybe she was hit by a Confundus, or had her memory fiddled with. Or maybe she's just...gone  _mad_."

Kingsley folded his arms. "What made you think this?"

"She-she told me there were no Death Eaters captured! That they all escaped, but no-one is looking for them! And she said-she said the Order of the Phoenix is...is dissolved."

Kingsley stared back at him, his features impassive. The longer he stared, the more the horror in him grew.

_No..._

"Hestia's alright, Harry," Kingsley said, "let me put your mind at ease about that."

_Put my mind at ease?_

Kingsley gestured to the nearest bed. "Let's sit down."

_That's where Neville used to sleep._

He sat down gingerly. Kingsley's weight dipped the mattress. "Harry, Hestia was right. The Order has been dissolved."

He stared at Kingsley. "How could you?" He whispered.

Kingsley passed a hand over his eyes. "The purpose of the Order was to bring down Voldemort. He's gone now."

"The-the Death Eaters," he stuttered, "tell me how many Death Eaters were captured."

Kingsley still had his hand over his eyes. "None, Harry."

_Wrong._

_I have one._

"So what Hestia said was true. The Order's packed it in, and no-one's looking for the Death Eaters that escaped."

Kingsley took a deep breath, and wiped his hand over his face. When Kingsley's eyes met his again, he saw moisture.

_Kingsley. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Crying._

"Many, many were slain, Harry. Their leader is dead. Those who fled..." he trailed off.

"What?" He said. "What will happen to them?"

"When the Ministry is re-established..." Kingsley muttered.

"The  _Ministry_?" He shouted, springing to his feet. "Are you mad? The Order needs to-"

"What Order, Harry?" Kingsley muttered, and he looked down to see a truly horrifying sight. Tears were leaking from Kingsley's eyes and spilling down his face. "There is no Order. Just a body count."

Kingsley stood up slowly.

"What did you do with them all?" He asked suddenly. "The Great Hall. It was empty. I fell asleep for-for just a couple of hours and the Great Hall-it was all clean."

"We-" Shacklebolt's voice sounded like rock cracking and splitting, "we took the bodies to a place where families can come and claim them. For burial."

"The Death Eaters too?"

_Why are you looking at me like that?_

Shacklebolt looked at him for such a long time, he began to feel quite angry.

"Yes," Kingsley said finally, "the Death Eaters too." Shacklebolt pinched the ridge of his nose. "We're all exhausted, Harry."

_I'm not._

"We're closing the school. Everyone's going home."

_Home?_

_What about me?_

Kingsley put a hand on his shoulder. "You need to rest, Harry. You need to be with the people you love."

"What's going to happen?" He croaked. His throat had closed up.

"No-one knows, Harry," Shacklebolt said. "But it's over." Shacklebolt gave his shoulder a heavy squeeze. "It's over." He turned and started to walk away. "Oh-wait." He doubled back, taking something from his pocket and holding it out.

"Portkey. For the Malfoy boy. It'll activate in an hour. Just take him into the grounds and give it to him."

He took the Portkey. It was a metal hair comb with several bent and broken teeth. He put it in his pocket.

Then Shacklebolt was gone.

"Harry," a voice said.

He had his wand out and was on his feet before his conscious mind heard the words.

"Harry," Hermione said, "it's me."

His eyes swept over her, confused. Where had she come from? Then he saw Ron coming up behind her, and saw that the curtains of Ron's bed were moving.

"We were asleep," Hermione said, gesturing to the bed. "You woke us up," she said, then added quickly, "but that's okay."

It hadn't even occured to him to check the beds _._

It didn't occur to Shacklebolt either.

_He's right._

_It's over._

There was no need to check under beds anymore for hiding villains.

"They're closing the school," he said to them. "Everyone's going home."

Hermione closed her eyes. "Thank Merlin for that." She leaned into Ron and he put his arms around her and they hugged.

Ron stroked her hair. "Let's go home," he said. He looked at Harry. "You should go find Ginny."

_Ginny._

"Then we can go home," Ron said, and sighed. "I'm so bloody tired."

_Home._

"Yes," he said, "I'll go find her."

He left the dormitory and went down the stairs. It was already much less crowded. The common room had largely emptied. He didn't see Kingsley anywhere. He spotted Ginny and it seemed to him he could smell her perfume from here. That flowery scent that brought her into his mind every time he smelled it.

_Ginny._

It had been a stupid dream. Just a nightmare, frightening but meaningless. He'd been very tired from fighting and dying and he'd had a dream. That was all.

_This is how it goes._

Save the world, get the girl, go home. Happily ever after.

_I saved the world. And there's the girl._

"Ginny," he said, and moved toward her, to hug her.

_I want to go home._

At that moment she stepped backward and he was left lunging for empty air. He stopped, feeling a little sheepish. She must not have realised he was trying to embrace her. "Hey," he said finally.

"Hey," she replied.

Neville didn't move away, as he'd expected him to. He could feel Neville's eyes on him.

_Can't he see I want to be alone with my girlfriend?_

Ginny was looking at him as if she was waiting for something. Waiting not very patiently.

_Oh, Merlin...am I in the dog house again?_

"Neville, would you mind giving us a minute?" He asked.

Neville didn't move or reply. He looked at Neville and he just stared back at him, that same flinty impassive stare.

"It's fine, Nev," Ginny said, her voice tight.

Neville looked at her, then sauntered away, but he didn't go very far. He could see him standing by the window nearest, looking out but clearly only there to eavesdrop.

"Let's go somewhere-a little more-" he said. He was about to say 'private' but suddenly he felt embarrassed to say that word, so he just stopped speaking.

"What?" Ginny asked. Her icy tone made him look at her, and his heart sank at what he saw. Her arms were crossed and she was looking daggers at him.

_Merlin's knob..._

This was the last thing he needed right now. He set his jaw and exhaled, determined to be reasonable.

"Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of Neville," she said.

He looked at her, confused.

_What does Neville have to do with it?_

He tried for a patient tone. "I'd just really like to speak to you alone."

" _Fine_." She said, in a voice that could strip paint. She strode off in the direction of the girls' dormitories. When he didn't follow, she span around and hissed, "Come on."

He followed her up the stairs-they didn't turn into a chute, this time-and through a doorway.

They were in a large apartment over two levels. A large desk and a sofa set surrounding the fireplace, and a mezzanine where he could make out a bed and wardrobe.

"Why...are we in the Head Girl's room?"

"This is my room," she said acidly.

_Neville in the Head Boy's room. Ginny in the Head Girl's..._

"Look Ginny," he said, raising his hands, "whatever I did, I'm sorry, okay?"

She stared at him.

"Now can you just accept my apology graciously and come give me a hug?"

She just stood there, and the silence stretched on. He began to get really annoyed. "No?" He said. "I guess that's too much to ask," his voice was getting louder, as he felt more and more angry, "Too much to ask-for my girlfriend to give me a hug."

"I'm not your girlfriend."

"I  _died_  last night! I defeated Voldemort!" He shouted.

_Wait._

_What did she say?_

"I'm not your girlfriend, Harry."

Now it was his turn to stare. "But-you kissed me."

"When?"

"On my-on my birthday."

"Your birthday?" She said, and then burst into laughter. "Last  _July_? Harry, it's May. That was  _ten months ago._ "

This was getting ridiculous. "Kiss me again if you want," he said. "Then it won't be ten months ago."

"I can't do that, Harry."

"Why?"

"Because I have a boyfriend."

He felt his jaw drop. "You do not."

"Yes," she said. "I do."

"Who?"

She stood up straighter and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Neville."

Now it was his turn to burst into laughter. "You have got to be joking."

"No. Harry. I'm not joking."

_I don't understand girls. I never have._

Ginny was looking over his shoulder. He turned and saw Neville standing there in the open doorway. Neville walked past him and stood next to Ginny, and took her hand. They looked at each other, and then Ginny reached up and kissed Neville, and Neville kissed back. Passionately.

He didn't even notice the kiss, not really. He was standing there, rooted to the spot. Ginny's face had brought to mind...

_The little girl in the dream...my daughter..._

He saw the little red-haired girl in his mind's eye again.

_I know what you are. You're...you're a witch._

It hadn't been Ginny at all.

That's _not a very nice thing to say to somebody!_

The little girl in his dream...his daughter...Lily...

_It was the real Lily. It was my mother._

He felt the back of his neck break out in a cold sweat.

Now the face of his wife in the dream loomed up at him.

He realised he was trembling.

She'd been called Ginny in the dream. The dream-logic had told him it was Ginny. But the face he saw in his mind's eye, the face of the dream-memory, was not Ginny's face.

_Oh Merlin...no. No!_

It was a face he knew only from photographs and other people's memories and most recently, a ghostly apparition in a dark forest. It was the same face his dream-daughter had, but grown up. It was a face he loved.

_Lily._

He turned and ran out of the room and he didn't stop until he was in the toilets, retching into the toilet bowl. His stomach heaved and he choked, but nothing came up.

***

"You  _knew_?" He was so angry he felt like he was about to burst into flames.

Hermione nodded. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. "She swore me to secrecy, Harry. She made me promise I wouldn't tell you."

"You're supposed to be my  _friend_!" He hissed.

"I'm sorry!" Hermione said, and started to cry. Her face was red and her hair was all frizzy and dishevelled.

_She looks so ugly._

Once she started, it just seemed like she wasn't going to stop. Ron put his arms around her, and she sobbed into his shoulder. And then Ron started to cry, too.

He just stood there, horrified. The more they cried, the angrier he felt. "How did you even find out? You haven't seen her in months."

Hermione raised her head. Her face looked like she'd been hit by that jinx she'd put on him when they were caught by the Snatchers. The one that made your face swell up and go as red and shiny as a boiled lobster.

"She owled me," Hermione sobbed.

"What?" The word seemed to echo around the room.

"I'm sorry, Harry!" Hermione choked.

He felt like the carpet had been ripped from under him. "Owl? When did you send an owl?"

"I needed my friends," she said thickly, "I needed to talk to them."

" _We're_ your friends!" He shouted. He felt as if a black hole had opened up in the middle of his body.

She sobbed into Ron's shoulder. He stroked her back and kissed her hair.

"Stop that!" He shouted.

Hermione sat back from Ron a little and wiped her face. "She loves you really, Harry. I'm sure she does. She felt abandoned. She felt like-"

The black hole within him seemed to be sucking in everything in its path. His friends, his girlfriend, his...his own mother. Everything was becoming distorted and wrong. The nightmare's insidious influence was seeping out of his dreams and into everything else.

He had done what he was supposed to do. He'd watched people die for him. He'd given himself up to death. He'd defeated and killed Voldemort. It was over.

_It's over._

Standing there looking at Ron and Hermione, he realised that it wasn't. Shacklebolt was wrong. Ron was wrong. They were all wrong, the criers and the mourners and the huggers and kissers and the drinkers and the partiers.

_It's not over._

The Death Eaters were still out there. They had escaped into the night and now they were running free, and Merlin only knew what evil they were getting up to.

"We need to go," he said to Ron and Hermione. "Be ready to leave in ten minutes."

He turned on his heel and left the dormitory. They didn't have a minute to spare. They needed to go, now, before they lost any more time.

"Harry," Ron's voice followed him.

He stopped and turned. Ron was there, wiping tears from his face. "You're tired, Harry. You need to get some sleep. How long has it been since you slept? We've been on the go since we left Bill and Fleur's."

"I slept," he said. "I slept twice."

"That was only a couple hours," Ron said, coming closer.

_How can you talk about sleep?_

"You need your sleep," Ron insisted.

If he was going to have that dream every time he went to sleep, he was going to have to live without sleep. "We're leaving," he repeated, "so get ready, and Hermione too, okay?"

He turned and continued toward the Head Boy's room.

"But-Harry-"

"What?" He half-turned, his voice sharp with frustration.

"Where are we going?" Ron asked.

" _We-"_ he stopped. What was wrong with him? "We're going to find the  _Death Eaters_? Remember?"

Ron stared at him, looking totally bewildered. Suddenly he hated Ron. Hated him more than he could stand.

 _You left_.  _You left me alone._

He had done everything for Ron. He'd put him on the Quidditch team, even though he couldn't play for shit.

_And still you left._

Ron had always been jealous of him. Ron had only been his friend because being Harry Potter's best friend made him cool in other people's eyes. He realised all of a sudden that without him, Ron was nothing. Really nothing at all.

_He's not clever, he's not funny..._

"Harry! Stop!"

_He's not good at magic..._

He could hear Ron's footsteps behind him, so he started running.

_He's crap at duelling..._

He was at the Head Boy's room.

"Alohomora."


	12. Sir Was Always Right

**Draco**

He pulled the blanket up and buried his head into the feather pillow. His eyelids felt like leaden weights. He stretched out luxuriously and sighed. He wasn't about to sleep in Longbottom's bed, but the sofa would do, and he'd had a bed made up immediately.

_Just a few minutes…_

He'd learned to sleep when he had the chance.

_When you get tired, you get slow, you get stupid._

Lightbunnies didn't scare him. Lightbunnies were marshmallow babies compared to what he'd faced in the past year.

_Just a few minutes' sleep, that's all…_

He closed his eyes. He was so tired his body felt like a dead weight, and everything seemed to be swaying.

He closed his eyes and there was Potter, staring at him.

_You're not the only person who's died, Potter, alright?_

Potter, looking suddenly very small, his shoulders slumped, staring at him.

_Just the only one who's come back to life._

Sir had been right. Sir had been right all along.

_Why did you have to be right about everything?_

Sir had told him.

_Sir, I hate you._

He hated Sir for being right, for teaching him everything, for expecting everything, for dying.

Sir had known the truth about how he felt about Potter long before he had known. Sir had seen it.

Even in death, he was right.

Sir was always right.

_Potter._

He saw Potter's eyes staring at him across the shower room, huge, like a startled animal, lost and alone.

_It's okay, Potter…_

Then the scene rose up in his mind's eye and he found himself there again. The Muggle cafe. The rich colours of an Indian summer, the free birds in the clear sky. Thick foam on the cappuccino and the rich, bitter tang of the coffee. The sharp scent of newsprint. The rushing crowds hurrying back and forth to St Pancras station. And there, Potter, caught in a sunbeam that flashed off his glasses. Potter, he hadn't seen him in years. He thought he'd never see him again.

_I'm sorry, Potter…_

This time Potter didn't turn away, didn't walk into the building. Potter raised a hand to his brow, as if to shade his vision from the sun, as if he was peering across the street, as if he'd seen him.

He felt so heavy and everything was swaying, as if he was drifting lazily out of his body, up into the air. Sleep was dragging him down, down, down.

And then Potter stepped forward, hesitantly, still looking. And then he stepped into the road and walked, and kept walking. Potter had seen him and Potter was walking toward him.

_Potter._

He slept.


	13. Debito Vitae

**Harry**

He wrenched the door open, flung himself through and shut it behind him. He locked the door and leaned against it. His heart was pounding and he felt hot in the face.

"Harry!" Ron's voice came through the door. "Come on, Harry."

_You can fuck right off._

_Coward._

"Potter?"

He recognised Malfoy's voice, groggy and indistinct. Then Malfoy's tousled head appeared above the back of the sofa and Malfoy squinted at him. He'd clearly just woken up.

He stood there staring at Malfoy and he had an epiphany. His subconscious must have decided already but had only just informed his conscious mind, because his feet had carried him here without his realising the reason why.

_Merlin's beard. That's it._

His mind was crystal clear. He knew how to bring the world back from topsy-turvy. He knew the way to push back the darkness.

The Death Eaters needed to be found and dealt with. Malfoy was a Death Eater.

_Malfoy can lead me to the Death Eaters._

He walked into the room and sat down on the sofa that was positioned in front of the fireplace, just like in the Head Girl's room. His head was swimming.

_I'm going alone._

He had tried to do things alone, before. So no-one would get hurt. But they wouldn't let him.

"Potter?" Malfoy was looking at him apprehensively from his place on the sofa. He sat down on the armchair next to it.

"Explain."

Malfoy blinked. "Pardon?"

"You said you would explain," he said. "Why you wanted to stay here."

"Oh-" Malfoy said, and looked down at his hands. His cheeks were rather pink.

"Spit it out," he snapped. The sounds from behind the door had stopped. Ron seemed to have gone away, but all that meant was that he had gone to get Hermione to come and reason with him.

"I, er," Malfoy said. " _Vitae debito_."

"What?" He snapped. He had no patience for Malfoy's showing off.

" _Vitae debito_."

"In  _English_!"

"You...you saved my life. In the Room of Hidden Things," Malfoy muttered, his cheeks now dark pink. "I owe you a life debt."

He frowned. "Okay...?"

Malfoy looked at him for a moment, and then his top lip quirked a little. "Don't tell me," he drawled slowly, "you don't know what a life debt is."

Anger rushed through him. He stood up, pulling the comb out of his pocket and holding it out to Malfoy. "See this?"

Malfoy stared back at him, his jaw set.

"This is a portkey Shacklebolt gave me. For you. I'm supposed to take you into the grounds and give it to you."

Malfoy pursed his lips, then raised one eyebrow archly. "Are you going to?"

He threw the comb at Malfoy as hard as he could. Malfoy dived out of the way, but it still ricocheted off his thigh and hit the ground.

"Ah! Shit, that hurt-"

"I  _will_ do it, Malfoy! Don't even try to piss me off at the moment, okay? Just don't!"

"Okay, okay," Malfoy mumbled, drawing his legs up on the sofa under the blankets.

"I know what a life debt is," he said finally.

_Self-explanatory, isn't it?_

_It's a, well, a life debt._

_Though I have no clue why you would actually acknowledge it…_

"Okay," Malfoy said, meeting his eyes, "so you understand my request."

So there  _was_  something Malfoy wasn't telling him. Malfoy just wanted him to admit he didn't know.

_And he can act his usual superior self._

He stared back at Malfoy.

"Harry! Are you in there?"

It was Hermione.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, and kicked the sofa so hard Malfoy jumped. He went to the door and shouted through it, "I don't want to talk to you."

Silence. Then, after a moment, "Harry, we're worried about you."

"I'm fine!" He shouted at the door.

_Enough of this._

He pointed his wand at the door and said, " _Muffliato._ "

"It's  _debito vitae_ , Potter," Malfoy said, startling him. He had gotten off the sofa.

"What does that  _mean_?" He said, frustrated.

_What does he want?_

"If I save your life," Malfoy said, "my debt will be paid."

_Ha! I'd rather count on a puffskein as a bodyguard._

_Wait—_

"Are you saying you want to…be my… _bodyguard_?"

Malfoy lowered his eyes. "Yes."

He was immediately suspicious.

"Malfoy, I would rather sleep with a Venomous Tentacula than trust you as my bodyguard."

"I  _know_  you don't trust me," Malfoy protested impatiently, "that's not the—" He came closer, very intense suddenly. "Potter-" Malfoy's eyes were searching his face. Deadly serious and horribly vulnerable at the same time. "This is a  _life debt_."

Malfoy just looked at him, his strange silver eyes wide and searching all over his face.

"Yeah, alright, Malfoy," he muttered, looking away. This was vulnerable Malfoy, scared Malfoy, the one he'd seen in the bathroom last year, the one he'd seen in the room of requirement last night.

_I don't like that Malfoy._

_Okay, I don't like_ any  _Malfoy._

He felt his anger return, welling up in him and rising into his throat. "What I don't understand," he said, feeling his voice rising into a shout, "is why you care about paying me back at all, considering you're the biggest  _coward_  and the least  _honourable_  person I have  _ever_ met!"

Malfoy stared at him. He was standing very still but he could see him trembling with emotion. "Ever?" He breathed, so quietly he could barely hear it.

He paused. "Okay. Let's just say you're in the top five, alright, Malfoy?"

Malfoy spoke, again, very quietly. "How would you feel if  _I_  had saved  _you_ , Potter? How would it feel to be in  _my_ debt for the rest of your life?"

"Exactly what I thought," he said, feeling ridiculous laughter bubbling up in him. "Forget the other stuff, you're without a doubt the most  _selfish_  person I have ever met.

"It's…it's— _vitae debito_ , Potter! What more do you want me to  _say_?"

He looked at him. His cheeks were flaming, his white hair flying about his face.

_I knew it._

_He just wants me to admit I don't know what this 'vitae debit' thing is._

Yes, that was what it was. Malfoy was trying to call him out on some aspect of the wizarding world he didn't know about. Trying to one-up him and remind him where he'd come from.

He turned back to Malfoy. "I saved your life twice," he said.

Malfoy's jaw dropped even more, if that was possible. "When?"

"Last night, before the Room of Requirement. I blocked a curse someone sent at you. And then Ron, ah, punched you in the stomach."

"Oh," Malfoy said, clearly remembering. Then he said, "So that's two lives, then."

_Two lives?_

"This isn't a video game!" He snapped, then clamped his mouth shut.

He couldn't have been more shocked if his left hand had started writing in Chinese of its own accord

 _Where did_ that  _come from?_

To his amazement, Malfoy burst out laughing.

"Don't you fucking laugh-" and before he knew it, his wand was at Malfoy's throat and Malfoy's pale eyes were wide and staring at him.

"Okay-" Malfoy gasped.

He stepped away, dropping his wand. For some reason, he remembered the sleeping portrait of Dumbledore.

 _I'm not a Muggle_.

He looked at Malfoy. "Okay," he said.

Malfoy looked up at him, and the expression on his face was the opposite of what he'd expected. "Okay?" There was a note in his voice, too, that he didn't understand.

"Just tell me one thing, Malfoy," he said. "Is this why you gave yourself up?"

Malfoy stared at him for a moment and then dropped his gaze. "Yes."

"You're giving yourself up to me, specifically to me?"

Malfoy, still staring at the floor, nodded tightly.

"Because you owe your life to me?

Malfoy nodded again.

"Great, because bare-faced  _lies_ are really something I look for in someone who claims to want to protect my life," he sighed, walking away and looking out the window.

It was such a beautiful day.

_Why is everything else so ugly?_

"I wasn't lying," Malfoy protested. "I don't give a fig about the other servants. I'll tell you whatever you want to know—"

_Oh, Merlin._

He didn't want to hear any more.

"Look, Malfoy. You're my prisoner, alright? You're a Death Eater and you are my prisoner until I say you aren't any more. So you can forget about all that saving my life stuff, because  _I'm_ in charge."

Malfoy actually gave a wan smile. "If I fail to save your life, Potter, you'll be dead."

He laughed right back, but he was laughing at Malfoy.

_You don't know anything, Malfoy._

_I'm Harry Potter._

_I don't fear death._

_Not any more._


	14. Accio Broom

**Draco**

Potter went back to the window, opened it.

"Malfoy. Here's the deal. I'm going to leave Hogwarts now, and I'm going to hunt down the last of the Death Eaters and destroy them."

The happy glow which had been growing inside him guttered and then drowned like a flame in hot wax. The bottom dropped right out of his stomach.

"What?" He heard his own voice, as thin and tremulous as the wind whistling through the corridors in winter.

Potter turned and shot him a look that took his breath away. "Are you coming or not?"

"Wh-what are you talking about?" He stuttered, hating the tremor in his voice.

Potter ignored him, leaned out the window and bellowed, " _Accio_ broom!"

"But-but Potter. How are you ever going to  _find_  th..." He trailed off.

_Oh._

_Shit._

His heart began to race.

" _Accio_ broom!" Potter bellowed.

"Potter." He began, approaching Potter cautiously, "Who else is going?"

Potter ignored him, shouting for the broom for a third time.

"The Aurors? Is Shacklebolt behind this?"

"Nope." Potter grunted, staring very intently out of the window at something in the distance.

"Granger? Ron Weasley? Longbottom and Weasley?"

" _Accio._ Stop being such a big girl's blouse, Malfoy," Potter replied dismissively. "Yes!" he cried, and pulled his arm through the window, an old Cleansweep 7 clutched in his fist. Potter flashed him a grin which cut momentarily through his unease like a sunbeam through dust motes.

_I can't go back._

He would never go back. He couldn't.

_I won't._

He would go with Potter until they were outside Hogwarts, and then he'd go and call his mother and tell her the mission was off, they would lose everything and this was the end of the Malfoys and the Blacks. Oh, and he was coming to join them in hiding. Forever.

Oh, and he'd never see Potter again.

_Fuck._

_I'm royally fucked._

The minute he thought he'd finally gotten away from those wretched  _stupid_ psychopaths once and for all,  _Potter_ was the one dragging him back to them. And on top of that, after all this time trying to think of ways to get close to Potter and stay there, Potter now wanted him, and wanted him alone.

He knew what Sir would have said.

_That's irony, Draco._

He closed his eyes.

 _And_ this _is sarcasm, Sir._

The fear returned. He knew Potter was brave, but… 

"Potter, this is..."

"What, Malfoy?" Potter said, fixing him with a jade green gaze that cut right through him. "What  _is this_? What are you going to tell me? To sit down and shut up? Smile and be a good boy? That the war is over?"

His heart was racing. He felt terrified, but exhilarated. "Who told you that? The war isn't over. The war is only just beginning." He stared at Potter, and Potter stared back at him, so intently that he felt his knees dissolving steadily into mush.

Potter leapt onto the window ledge and the next moment, he had dropped out of sight. For one heart-clenching moment he thought Potter had jumped to his death. Then he appeared astride the broomstick, hovering outside the window.

"Come on," Potter gestured to him.

He grabbed his weekender, slung it across his shoulder.

And he saw the door. It was covered in splinters, and so was the floor in front of it. It was split down the middle, and shuddering. As he watched, it gave a great judder and a bright flash of silver winked at him from the middle of it. Another judder and the head of an axe burst through it, only to bounce to the floor of the room as the wood burst apart, giving way entirely.

 _Potter cast_ Muffliato.

Four enormous fingers crept in through the gash the axe had left behind and started pulling chunks of wood away. He felt strangely horrified by the sight.

_It's...it's the Light._

_They've been chopping their way in here all this time..._

There was a gash in the door, and through it peered Rubeus Hagrid's hairy face, which crumpled into a scowl and bawled silently a word that looked like "Draco Malfoy".

He turned on his heel and ran for the window, vaulted over the sill and caught Potter's shoulders, and with a great swoop of the heart landed on the back of the broomstick, clutching Potter tightly.

He let go immediately and clutched the broomstick handle instead.

"They're almost through," he said to Potter's ear, with another swoop of the heart, this one unrelated to jumping from windows to broomsticks. Then another swoop, as Potter sent them into a dead drop that left his stomach in Gryffindor Tower and set his heart racing as they hugged the wall of the castle so closely their shoulders almost grazed it.

He realised what Potter was doing. Any observer looking out of the windows of the castle would find it very difficult to locate them. Potter was clearly concerned that if he shot out across the grounds, they would be an easy target for anyone within the castle trying to stop them.

_Hecate's hump._

He didn't know what had happened to make Potter fall out with seemingly  _all_  his close friends and allies, but whatever it was, he was clearly taking it very seriously.

Potter steered them to the east side of the castle.

"The greenhouses," he muttered.

"Exactly," Potter said in reply, or he thought he did, anyway.

The break away from the castle was very fast, very low to the ground, whipping between the greenhouses and the rows of trees behind them. There was only a short stretch of lawn between the tree verge and the Forbidden Forest-and then they would be clear of the borders of Hogwarts.

He turned around as far as he could and scanned the grounds behind them. Nothing. No-one. He couldn't believe it. Had they made it?

They shot out of the cover of the trees and into the open.

"Is there anyone following?"

"No," he replied.

Within seconds they were under tree cover and speeding through the Forbidden Forest. Tree cover was thick, but Potter handled the broom like a master. He weaved in and out of the close-set trees with precision, at speed. He couldn't help but admire the skill. In the past that would have sent a prickle of jealousy up his spine, but he had cooled off on Quidditch during the past year.

_I really only played because of Potter._

_I can admit that now._

He could admit that so many things which had been important to him while he was at school had had Potter at their heart.

He kept looking behind him, searching for pursuers. Nothing.

Potter kept going for a few more minutes, until they had left Hogwarts and the grounds far behind. Potter slowed down and he jumped off as soon as they were low enough to the ground, to avoid the embarrassment of a double dismount.

He assumed Potter was thinking what he was thinking. He closed his eyes and focused on a spot two feet to his left. The suffocating pressure of Apparition squeezed him for a heartbeat, and then relaxed. He opened his eyes.

Potter was looking at him. "Good," he said.

With largely unmarked borders, it was impossible to tell where Hogwarts began and ended. The only way to tell was to try Apparating.

"Good," he agreed.

"Alright," Potter said. "Where are we going?"

"Sorry?"

"Let's go," Potter said, making a chivvying motion with his hands. "Can we take the broom or do you want to Side-along?"

Potter looked exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red and ringed by dark circles. His cheeks had a hollow look, as if he had suddenly dropped a lot of weight. And on top of that he looked filthy, his skin grimy, his hair sticking up everywhere and his clothes in tatters. And yet a jittery kind of nervous energy emanated from him.

He looked a little mad, actually. Like a rough sleeper or a teenage heroin addict you would see in a film, lurking in an alleyway.

"Wai-hold on, Potter," he said, raising his own hands in cautious reply.

"No. No 'wait'. No 'hold on'.  _You_ promised to take me to Death Eaters!"

_Oh Hecate._

He was exhausted too, and emotionally drained to the point of numbness, and his injuries hurt. The last thing he wanted to deal with now was a great big Chosen-One  _I'm-So-Special_  tantrum.

"I need to find out where they  _are_ first, Potter," he said in as level a tone as he could get to pass his lips.

Potter stopped in his tracks and his mouth actually dropped open. " _What_? What do you mean, you have to  _find out_  where they are?"

"I'm not a bleeding-  _dark_   _wizard locating device_ alright, Potter? I don't know exactly where each and every Death Eater is at each and every moment of the day!"

Potter actually pouted then, and folded his arms over his chest. "You better find out, then. And  _fast_."

"Yeah, yeah,  _okay_." He muttered. "You didn't exactly pick the Reptile's number one fan, you know. Not exactly top of the servants' Christmas card list."

"Reptile?" Potter repeated, as if he was hearing it for the first time.

"Yah, Potter. Reptile. Not a fan."

Potter stared at him. "Okay." He frowned. "Wait." He shook his head. "What?"

He rolled his eyes.

 _Hecate_ howled _, what is the point._

"Nothing, Potter. Never mind."

"You're a  _Death Eater_ , Malfoy-"

"Was-"

"Was?  _Was_?" Potter was getting pinker by the second, and pointing. "I can see the bleeding  _Mark_  on your arm."

_Shit._

He clutched his wrist protectively, pulling down the cuff. He glamoured it whenever he could get away with it.

"Was," he hissed, angry now, and hurt. "In case you didn't notice, which I know you did, I didn't answer the Reptile's calls last night. I  _left_ ," he clarified.

"You brought Crabbe and Goyle into the Room of Requirement to try and capture me!"

"That-that wasn't...what it looked like," he said lamely.

"What was it, then, exactly?" Potter said, staring at him.

_Shit._

_He's staring at me._

"Yeah, yeah. I know you don't believe a word I say," he muttered.

"You're bloody right I don't, Malfoy," Potter growled. "If I wasn't so tired I'd pummel you. We're all alone. There's no-one here to protect you now."

_We're all alone._

He looked at Potter, at his mad hair, his dirty face, his bad attitude, his ego, and his eyes boring into him.

_Bring on the servants._

_Bring 'em all on._

It seemed a small price to pay.

To be alone with Harry Potter.


	15. Somewhere Safe, With A Floo Connection

**Harry**

_Somewhere safe, with a Floo connection._

He walked back and forth, around the clearing in the forest where they'd come to a stop. He felt energized, purposeful, a little jittery. Finally things were happening. Finally things were back on track.

_Safe. Floo connection._

He snapped his fingers. "Hog's Head."

Malfoy frowned. "In Hogsmeade?"

"Yeah. It's close. It's obviously safe. And Aberforth will help us."

"But...what about your friends?" Malfoy asked, hesitantly.

"What d'you mean?"

"Didn't you...fall out with them?"

_I..._

He had, yes. But 'falling out' suggested you were going to make up again.

_Things are different now._

He was different. It could never go back to how it was before.

"What's your point, Malfoy?"

"The publican is an ally of the Light, yes?"

_The Light?_

Oh...right. "Er. Yeah."

_How does he know that?_

"Aren't you concerned he might try to stop you leaving?"

"What?" He said scornfully.

_What is he talking about?_

_How would he know anything about this?_

"Just shut up, alright, Malfoy?"

Malfoy's eyebrows stayed up, and he stared at him for a few moments. "Alright," he said, finally, in a small voice.

_Alright?_

He couldn't have been more surprised if you'd told him an eleven-year-old Hungarian Horntail had enrolled at Hogwarts and would be starting in September. He stared at Malfoy, who was standing there with his arms at his sides, his face very white against his black clothes. That feeling of things having changed, reversed, stood on their head, hit him again.

He shrugged. "Alright." He couldn't explain Malfoy's strange behaviour. But ultimately it didn't matter. Once he'd dealt with the Death Eaters, he wouldn't have to deal with Malfoy any more, either. Anything Malfoy did to not make his life more difficult was welcome, surprising though it might be.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Invisibility cloak. He hesitated for a half second, wondering if he should let Malfoy know it existed.

 _Whatever_.

What did it matter if Malfoy told the other Death Eaters he had a cloak? It wouldn't magically grant them the ability to see through it. He shook it out, then threw it around his shoulders.

Malfoy let out a gasp and clapped his hands to his mouth, and stood there staring wide-eyed. "Oh my Hecate," he gasped after a moment.

He almost laughed He took the cloak for granted so much that it always amazed him how impressed other people were by it. He held one corner out for Malfoy to get under it. "Come on."

Malfoy just stood there in the same position, staring at him. "What?"

"Get under the cloak. I'm taking you Side-along."

"Er..." Malfoy was looking at the cloak warily.

"Hurry up!" He said, impatient. He didn't want to cosy up under the cloak with Malfoy, but the thought had just occurred to him that there was really nothing to stop Malfoy from getting away if he felt like it. He certainly couldn't trust Malfoy to sit here quietly in the forest until he returned. Maybe Malfoy hadn't meant to be captured at all, and this whole thing was just a ruse to get out of Hogwarts so he could run away.

"Why do you need the cloak?" Malfoy asked.

He stopped. He'd been travelling like this for so long it had simply become habit.

"There could still be Death Eaters lurking about in Hogsmeade," he pointed out. "They had the place pretty well locked down. I don't want anyone to know I've got you until the right moment. It could give the game away."

Malfoy nodded slowly, then started walking toward him, arms folded. He started to feel nervous. He didn't want Malfoy coming too close to him, but he had no choice. Malfoy edged closer and closer, hunching over, until he was standing right next to him.

"You'll have to get a bit closer," he said, trying to drape the cloak over the two of them and failing. Malfoy edged closer. Malfoy's hip touched his. "Still not enough," he said shortly.

It was uncomfortable and awkward being so close to another person he disliked so much. Malfoy inched nearer. Their chests touched, just. Malfoy flinched. He huffed in frustration, turned so he was facing Malfoy, grabbed him, and pulled him flush against his body. With his free hand he arranged the cloak around them-it fit properly now-and pulled the hood over both their heads. He grasped Malfoy's torso tightly and focused on the Apparition.

_The Hog's Head._

And then he was blinking in the sunlight outside the dingy pub. It was quiet. The streets were deserted, the shops shuttered. It looked much as it had last night. Malfoy tried to step away, but he tightened his grip. He reached one hand out of the cloak and rapped on the door.

In the silence, his and Malfoy's breath sounded very loud. It was a little too warm under here, and he kept feeling Malfoy's hot breath on his neck. Malfoy smelled of soap, shampoo and aftershave. He could feel Malfoy's ribs. His skin began to crawl and he started to feel as if he was in the black suffocating space of Apparition.

Finally he heard footsteps and then Aberforth opened the door and peered out, scowling.

He pulled the cloak back just a little. "Abe, it's me."

"Harry?" Abe opened the door wide, "Get in. Get inside!"

He didn't need telling twice. He pushed Malfoy ahead of him and shoved him inside. The distance was merciful. He shut the door behind him them and locked it.

Aberforth was staring at Draco Malfoy like he couldn't believe his eyes. "What is this, Harry?" He asked, slowly raising his wand at Malfoy. Malfoy shrank against the wall of the narrow entry hall.

"He's my prisoner," he told Aberforth, "and he's not armed. He's harmless."

"This one's a Malfoy, Potter," Abe growled at Malfoy, leering at him. "Harmless isn't the word I'd use."

"I've got him under control," he said sharply. He didn't like the way Abe was advancing on Malfoy. He didn't like the way people kept taking it upon themselves to interfere with his prisoner. He stepped between them. "He needs to make a Firecall," he informed Abe.

"Who's he going to call?" Abe grunted. "You-Know-Who's cronies?"

"Actually, he might need to, yes," he said, shepherding Malfoy into the pub. "I'm on the trail of the remaining Death Eaters. No-one else is up to the job, apparently."

Abe pointed to the fireplace in the common room, surrounded by empty tables and chairs. The place was deserted.

He gave Malfoy a nudge. "Go on," he said. Malfoy gave him a look and then walked toward it gingerly.

"It won't bite you, Malfoy," Aberforth chuckled darkly.

Malfoy shot Abe a look of hatred, then cast a glance at him. "This line's not secure."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I'm not a bleeding idiot, that's how."

He looked at Aberforth, eyebrows raised.

Abe shrugged.

He gave Malfoy a look. "Make the call, Malfoy."

Malfoy just looked back at him. "I'm limited as to what I can do on an unsecured line."

He rolled his eyes. "I don't even know who you're scared of. Wouldn't it be Death Eaters listening anyway?"

Malfoy just looked at him.

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" He ran his hands through his hair. "Why is this so complicated?"

_I just want to go and find some Death Eaters._

_Is that so hard?_

"I'll make a call, Potter. But all I can do is set up another meeting at a certain place and time, to take place over a secure line."

"You're shitting me. Please tell me you're shitting me."

Malfoy shook his head.

He heaved a sigh. He didn't know why he believed Malfoy. Did he believe him? Was Malfoy stalling?

_I'll play along for now… if he doesn't deliver, I'll have to increase the pressure._

He waved his hand at Malfoy, and Malfoy went over to the fireplace.

"Harry," Aberforth leaned toward him and spoke in an undertone. "What are you doing?"

"Just what I've said, Abe. It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it."

Abe grunted, then jerked his head at Malfoy's crouched form. "What about him, then?"

"What about him?"

"You trust him?"

"No..."

Aberforth looked at him like he was waiting for more.

"Look, I'm not afraid of Malfoy," he said, then chuckled.

_Who would be?_

"What if he's leading you into a trap?" Aberforth asked, watching Malfoy's slight form as he leaned over and his head and torso disappeared into the flames.

_A trap?_

Well...if the trap led to Death Eaters, then what did it matter if it was a trap?

_Come to think of it, a trap's actually just what I need..._

"I just want to find the Death Eaters," he said.

Aberforth cleared his throat. "How long will you be gone?"

He stared at Malfoy, wondering what he was talking about, who he was talking to. Then he realised that staring at Malfoy just now meant he was basically just staring at Malfoy's bum, and he dropped his eyes. He cleared his throat as well. "As long as it takes."

"Funerals," Abe grunted.

_Funerals?_

"You'll miss 'em," Abe pointed out. He was still watching Malfoy, and suddenly he had the strange thought that  _Abe_  was looking at Malfoy's bum. Did he realise what he was doing? He felt a little embarrassed for him.

Then he remembered. The funerals.

"Well," he said, "I'm sure they wouldn't have wanted any more innocent people to be killed because I was attending their funeral instead of bringing Death Eaters to justice."

Abe shot him a look that he couldn't read, and then let out a low whistle.

He frowned. "What?"

"I think my brother would have been sad to see this day, Harry."

"Come again?" He said, but with a rising feeling of discomfort. What was Aberforth getting at?

"I think he'd have counted on you to be there at their funerals, Harry. To pay your respects. Say good-bye." Aberforth's voice was deep and gravelly as he turned and met his eyes. "Give thanks... for their sacrifice."

His mind filled with the sleeping portrait of Dumbledore.

_Professor Dumbledore._

_Wake up._

_Wake._

_Up!_

He shook his head, backing away slowly and then walking toward Malfoy. He didn't want to spend another minute here. He tapped Malfoy on the back to get his attention.

"I think you're making a mistake, Harry," Aberforth said.

Malfoy sat up, coughing from the Floo powder, and looked surprised to see Harry standing there next to him. Malfoy stood up.

"Well, thank you, Abe," he said, making sure Malfoy was with him and heading for the door. "But this is something I have to do."

Aberforth took a step to the side so that he was blocking the exit.

He pulled up short.

_What is going on?_

"I really think you're making a mistake, Harry," Aberforth said again.

And at that moment he noticed something over Abe's shoulder. It was the portrait of Arianna Dumbledore. When they arrived here before the battle, he'd seen Neville coming up behind Arianna in the portrait. Now he was seeing the same thing again. Arianna was walking down the tunnel, flanked by a shadowy figure.

But something was different this time. Behind Arianna and the person next to her, he glimpsed another figure, walking behind. And he could just see another, or maybe even two figures, behind that.

_Who are they?_

"And so do all your friends, Harry," Aberforth said.

Something caught his eye through the white mesh curtains over the windows. Someone was standing outside. Two someones. In Hogwarts uniforms.

_What...?_

At that moment the portrait burst open and the next thing he knew, Neville, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were in the room.

"Harry! Here you are!" Hermione cried.

Simultaneously he overbalanced and fell to the floor. He knocked Malfoy on his way down, who then landed on top of him, squashing his shoulder and ribcage.

"Argh! Malfoy, what are you-"

He reached for his wand instinctively, and that was when he realised his hands were tied. He looked down and saw that his wrists and ankles had been bound with sturdy cords. This was why he had overbalanced.

_What the…?_

The next thing he knew, Ron and Neville were pulling him to his feet. Thank Merlin they had gotten here just in time.

"Thanks, mate," he said to Ron, ignoring Neville. He raised his bound hands to point at Abe, feeling outrage descending on him. "He just tied me up! Get these things off me, right now."

Silence.

Then he heard again, in his mind, the words Abe had uttered just now.

_I really think you're making a mistake...and so do all your friends._

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He looked from Ron to Hermione, for them to deny it, for them to explain.

"Untie me!" He said.

"You're going to be okay, Harry, mate," Ron said, clapping him on the back. His loud, hearty tone was fooling no-one. He was ashen-faced and wouldn't meet his eyes.

He felt his heart pounding wildly. He turned to Hermione. "'Mione-"

She looked at him briefly, then dropped her gaze. "You-you..." Her voice trailed off and her cheeks were scarlet. "We're going to help you, Harry." She said this to her shoes.

Neither of them took out their wands. Neither of them did anything at all.

_I…don't understand._

_What happened to the world while I was asleep?_

_What happened to the world while I was dead?_

 


	16. Help And Support

**Draco**

With a sense of rising panic, he realised he was surrounded. Lightbunnies were pouring in through the street door, popping out from behind portrait frames.

_Shit._

Then his arms and legs were wrenched violently together and he lost his balance.

"Argh! Malfoy, what are you-"

He fell over, crashing into Potter on the way down and landing painfully on the wooden floorboards. Potter seemed to have lost his balance as well. He could feel the skin of his wrists and ankles burning. They had been magically bound together with sturdy cords. The friction created by the ropes when they wound themselves into place had given him a fierce rope burn.

_Hecate wept._

_Bugger_ this _for a lark._

Lying on the floor, he watched as Potter's cronies lifted him bodily and stood him on his feet.

"He just tied me up! Get these things off me, right now."

Potter was red in the face, angry and outraged.

_I told you we shouldn't come here._

_I told you, Potter._

His sense of satisfaction was short-lived, however. This whole situation was making him very uncomfortable. He looked at the faces of the people who were steadily filling up the pub.

_How many Lightbunnies does it take to capture a Saviour?_

"Untie me!" Potter was shouting.

Granger and Ron Weasley were standing there shame-faced, mumbling. Neither of them made any move to free Potter or provide any explanation.

His gaze moved around the room, looking at the crowd standing silently and gawping at the sight in front of them. Some looked worried, some frightened, some shocked. All of them looked exhausted. Whitebeard's brother had retreated behind the bar, where he seemed to be pouring drinks.

_And then... there's those two._

Weasley and Neville stood slightly to one side, watching the spectacle impassively.

_I have a bad feeling about this._

_A_ really _bad feeling._

It clicked into place, then.

Why he was experiencing this sense of deja vu.

_Shades of Aunt Bella..._

When he'd been very small, his mother's stories had often frightened him.

But they had been just that-stories.

Not real.

_Your poor, poor Aunt Bella._

Home was real. His mother's bedroom with its crackling fire was real. His mother's bed with its soft silk coverlet, his mother's words a warm buzz as his head lay against her shoulder. Her fingers stroking his hair. These things were real.

_But then Aunt Bella wasn't a story any more._

She was real, and she was there. She was in his mother's bedroom, screaming and cursing the coverlet to shreds.

_She's afraid._

_She's afraid of something inside her own mind._

_Do you understand that, Draco?_

Until he'd met the Reptile, Aunt Bella had frightened him more than anyone or anything.

_We must help her, Draco._

_She can't help it._

_It's not her fault._

_She's gravely ill._

He had tried to help Aunt Bella, he had tried to understand her. He had helped his mother coax food into Aunt Bella's mouth when she refused to feed herself. He had comforted Aunt Bella when she was frightened. He had helped his mother brew the potions that made the creature within Aunt Bella become quiet and biddable. The potions no-one had given her while she was in Azkaban.

_Your Aunt Bella first got ill at Hogwarts..._

He'd been sitting on his mother's bed while a winter storm raged outside.

_She was writing letters to people, trying to convince them to give fealty to Tom Riddle. She sent owl after owl._

His mother had looked frail, sitting up in bed wearing her silk dressing gown. For the first time in his life, he thought she looked old.

_It became clear her behaviour was not normal. And I grew frightened. Frightened for her and... a little, of her._

She'd sipped tea and drawn the coverlet closer around her, as if she was cold. Whether it was the room or the memory which chilled her, he didn't know.

_They came for her, Draco._

He remembered staring at his mother spellbound, barely daring to breathe, waiting on her every word.

 _They came in lime green robes,_  Mother said. They _gave my sister a Sedative Soother which made her sleep until the afternoon of the next day. And she was in St. Mungo's for the next six months._

He lay there on the floor, staring at Potter's jeans and trainers, bound at the ankle with thick cords. With a tremor of the heart, he looked up at Potter's face. His chest contracted almost painfully.

_I don't want to see this._

He wanted to be somewhere else, not having to bear witness to this.

_Your Aunt Bella believes that Tom Riddle controls her thoughts. She believes that he knows everything she thinks and says and does. She believes she must please him, or terrible things will happen._

Aunt Bella had believed those things. She didn't believe anything anymore.

_Aunt Bella is no more._

He hadn't even thought to say anything to his mother about that. He hadn't even thought about it very much beyond a sense of relief. He only had to think of Aunt Bella's tortured face and all the times he had tried to calm her crying during the night.

_They should hang for what they've done to my sister._

Footsteps were approaching behind him, making the floorboards vibrate.

"Harry, just calm down. We're all here for you. Your  _friends_  are here for you," Weasley said. Her tone was reassuring, but her posture was quite the opposite. She was standing with one hand cockily on her hip, her long ponytail swinging.

Longbottom uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, addressing the room. "Harry needs to rest. He's been though so much. Dean, Seamus, Ron and Hermione, please show Harry to one of the guest bedrooms upstairs."

Potter started to say something, but then Weasley quietly cast the same silencing curse which Longbottom had used on him earlier. The one which had sealed his lips together so that he couldn't utter a word.

_Hecate._

He watched Potter's eyes widen in outrage and he began to kick his bound feet against the floor. Dean and Seamus knelt down and picked Potter up while Granger and Weasley's brother grabbed his legs. They carried him up the staircase and out of sight.

And then he was all alone, lying bound on the floor, surrounded by some of his least favourite people in the world.

"We've all been through a lot," Weasley continued, picking up the thread of Longbottom's speech. "We've struggled. We've sacrificed. We've lost loved ones. We're all in pain, just now."

There was a murmur from the crowd. He saw people dabbing at their eyes, or slipping an arm around each other.

_Yes. You won._

_How nice for you._

"Harry needs our help and support. We all need to help and support each other so we can rebuild our lives and our society," Longbottom chimed in, putting an arm around Weasley's hips.

_Oh, Hecate spare us._

_I think I'm going to be sick._

"We'll wait an hour, to make sure it's really Harry," Weasley continued, "and then we'll make sure he gets the help he needs. Thank you for all your help. Without you, we would never have been able to find him. And who knows..." Weasley turned around and looked down at him. "Who knows what would have happened if we hadn't found him."

"Fuck you, Weasley." He couldn't help himself. He couldn't stand the sight of her or her overgrown boyfriend.

A sort of hiss ran through the crowd.

Weasley looked down at him and a little smirk grew on her lips. "Oh,  _Draco_ —"

A series of sniggers broke out around the room.

"That's  _Malfoy_  to you, Weasley," he spat. The toe nudged him harder. He winced, half in pain, half in anticipation of it.

_This would be a really good time to keep my gob shut._

"Weasley—" he said quickly. "You need to put me in with Potter."

She blinked at him a few times, and then a grin formed slowly on her face. "Abe!" She called, "you got a honeymoon suite up there?"

A few giggles broke out.

Then there was a grunt from behind the bar. "No," Dumbledore took a slow sip of a glass of golden liquid, "but I've two singles with a hole in the party wall about yea big."

_Oh, Hecate spare us._

The Gryffindors fell about the place in laughter. The mood suddenly shifted, and people were smiling again.

_Fab._

_You're most welcome, by the way, for the laugh at my expense._

_The next time I set foot in that castle, I will send that Hecate-cursed poltergeist back beyond the veil of sadness once and for all._

Weasley accepted a glass with a couple of inches of golden liquid in it from Longbottom. She took a sip, smacked her lips in satisfaction and then nodded to a couple of heavies standing by.

A big boy with dark brown hair he remembered leaving Hogwarts a few years go raised his wand and pointed it at him, muttering a spell that made him rise into the air.

_Shit._

_I am never going to see him again._

He was going to be separated from Potter once and for all if he didn't convince this rabble.

"I'm his sworn mage." His words rang out in the small pub.

A shocked silence descended on the crowd.

Ron Weasley scoffed, "You don't have that kind of honour in you, Malfoy."

"I'm in vitae debito to Potter twice over," he snapped. "The oath has been made."

The Lightbunnies fell into what seemed to be a genuinely shocked silence. He almost wanted to laugh with triumph.

_Priceless._

Weasley's long ponytail whipped about as she said in a loud whisper to Longbottom, "You know why he's doing it, Nev. Isn't it obvious?"

Longbottom smirked and there was a tittering among the assembled Lightbunnies.

" _Have a go_ , Draco, you never know," Weasley said, turning back to him and breaking into a wide, cold smile. "I always thought Harry was a bit lacking in, oh,  _enthusiasm_  when it came to his girlfriends. Maybe  _you'll_  be the one to change that."

With that, she cast the muzzling charm on him and he felt his lips seal together. Then she gave him a great push and he shot backward through the air.

He could hear a chorus of laughter and Ron Weasley's confused voice shouting, "What d'you mean by that, Ginny? Harry's not—! He was well keen on you, Ginny, and Cho too, wasn't he, Hermione? 'Mione?"

He floated into the bannister and hovered there, immobile. The two burly boys followed after and started guiding him up the stairs with their wands.

_Gryffindors._

_Chivalrous?_

_My arse._


	17. Lime Green Robes

**Harry**

_Ron and Hermione were in my dream, too._

He lay on his side on the bed in the guest room above the pub and stared at the faded wallpaper. He'd kicked at the wall with his bound feet for several minutes, but he'd become winded quickly since he could only breathe through his nose.

_Ron had passed the Muggle driving test._

_Ha!_

At least one stupid, random, actual dream-like thing had happened in that nightmare.

_It was just a dream._

The thing was, he'd been getting a terrible feeling, just eating at the edges of his mind, that it had been a vision of the future.

_Ron and Hermione had children too._

He almost smiled when he remembered what they had been called. That had to prove it was a dream, too. Their children had had ridiculous names, totally unrelated to anything.

_Rose and Hugo…_

Somehow the absurd things only threw the scary stuff into starker contrast, made it even more chilling and sickening.

_Don't think about it._

He saw Ron and Hermione's children for what they were now, just younger versions of Ron and Hermione themselves. Now he thought of it, that Hugo kid had even had a spot on his nose, like Ron had the first time they met on the Hogwarts Express.

 _How can_ that _be a vision of the future?_

A future where people gave birth to identical clones of themselves and their parents, where he had married his own mother—

_It's not a vision. It doesn't mean anything._

_It was just a stupid dream._

_Just stop thinking about it._

He looked down at the cords binding his ankles and wrists.

_My friends._

_My first, only, ever, actual, real friends._

When the ropes had appeared, he really had thought it was a joke, or a prank, or something. And then they had just stood there po-faced while Neville— _Neville_ —and Ginny— _Ginny_ —ordered him and everyone else about.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

_Freedom._

_Is this what it feels like?_

The sound of tramping feet came to him from the narrow corridor outside, and then the door opened and Malfoy sailed through the air, crashed into the wall and dropped onto the bed opposite him. The door slammed shut and he heard it being spelled closed.

_Brilliant._

_That's just brilliant._

_Betrayed by my friends._

_Tied up, my wand taken away, and locked up in a room._

_With Draco Malfoy._

He stared at the ceiling, working his mouth to try to get his lips open. It was no good. They were sealed together and nothing he did made any difference.

_I don't know why I bothered to come back._

_Maybe I would have been better off just ... going on._

_On that train._

_The train in the station._

_The station where I was with Dumbledore._

He became aware of movement and when he turned his head he saw Malfoy sitting on the edge of the bed. Malfoy stood up with difficulty and started to hop his way over toward where he lay. He overbalanced and crashed heavily onto the floor.

He laughed, which was particularly difficult with his lips sealed together.

_That's the funniest thing I've seen in ages._

Malfoy shot him a dirty look, so he laughed some more.

Eventually Malfoy crawled his way onto the bed next to him. Then Malfoy leaned to one side and gave him a meaningful look.

_What?_

Malfoy kept pointing with his bound hands toward some part of his southern regions.

_What?_

Actually—wait. He stopped in surprise and looked at Malfoy again. He hadn't noticed what Malfoy was wearing up to this point, but now he had, it surprised him. He was wearing black jeans and on top, a long-sleeved black t-shirt. On his feet were normal Muggle trainers, well worn in.

_Malfoy in Muggle clothes?_

He supposed he'd seen stranger things, but…

He shook his head at Malfoy, confused. Malfoy rolled his eyes, then took his bound hands and started pawing at his jeans pocket.

Then he saw it. A gleam of silver. It was the comb Shacklebolt had given him.

_The Portkey._

_The Portkey!_

_Where does that Portkey go?_

Shacklebolt had given it to him to give to Malfoy. What if it led directly to a cell in Azkaban? Or a locked room somewhere?

He gave Malfoy a sarcastic look back.

_Brilliant bloody idea, Malfoy._

Malfoy seemed to get what he meant after a second, and then his expression turned annoyed. Malfoy gestured at the Portkey again, more insistently this time.

He shook his head firmly.

Malfoy was pissed off now. He gestured with his bound wrists, thumped his feet on the floor, frowning.

_Not a clue, mate._

Malfoy rolled his eyes in apparent frustration and collapsed back on the bed.

_We're staying here._

They would let him out eventually. It couldn't be more than a couple of hours. Malfoy would just have to wait.

_I might even take a nap._

He glanced at Malfoy.

_Just not on this bed._

He stood up awkwardly and tried to walk by shuffling his feet, but his legs were boud too tightly together. He had to hop in order to move. He felt ridiculous. Having his hands bound in front of him made his balance precarious. He hopped again and almost toppled over.

The room was very small, with a floor of uneven wooden boards which sloped toward the window. The room was wider than it was deep, and beyond the foot of the beds there was only space for a wooden chair, which had been crammed in to fit between the bed and the wall, next to the window.

He made his way to it and sat down to look through the misty glass.

 _Who are_ they _?_

There were adults down there, strangers. He counted them. Six witches and wizards. They were all wearing lime green robes. They were standing together, huddled in discussion. One or two turned their heads as a seventh joined them, having apparently just come out of the pub. The newcomer gestured at the second floor of the building.

And then seven faces turned upward and looked at him.

A chill went down his spine and he ducked instinctively.

_Merlin's beard._

He edged off the chair, still ducking down and trying to remain out of sight. He levered himself off the chair by propping his arms on the single bed next to him, and lowered himself onto the floor.

_Who the fuck are they?_

_And why are they looking for me?_

An inarticulate sound from Malfoy broke his train of thought. Malfoy was sitting bolt upright on the bed, an expression of alarm on his face, staring at him. Malfoy made the noise again.

_Of course._

It all made sense now.

_They've come for Malfoy._

They could only be a special branch of the Aurors which went into gear during times of extreme crisis, when all other sources of law enforcement had been exhausted.

_Like that, do you, Kingsley?_

_I told you it wasn't over._

He shot Malfoy a look that said,

_Well, you had this coming, didn't you?_

Malfoy dropped to the floor and crawled toward him awkwardly. It was another precious laugh-out-loud sight. He'd had so many of those today with Malfoy.

_Thank you, Malfoy._

_Thank you for being a muppet._

Malfoy kept coming, scurrying along on his front and dragging himself with his forearms, pushing with his knees. Finally Malfoy stopped and, panting a little, met his eyes.

_What?_

He looked into Malfoy's strange silver coloured eyes.

_What, Malfoy?_

Malfoy sat back on his bum and gestured to his pocket with his hands. Malfoy clearly wanted him to agree to using the Portkey to escape.

_Sorry, Malfoy._

_You chose to be a Death Eater…_

He stared back into Malfoy's eyes and allowed a small smirk to form on his lips.

 _There were_ going _to be consequences,_ weren't _there?_

Malfoy's eyes opened even wider for a second and then Malfoy grabbed hold of his arm between his bound hands, "Mm-mm! M mm mm mm mm mm mmmmm!"

He shook off Malfoy's touch.

"Mm mm mmm!" Malfoy was getting red in the face, but he kept going, frustration apparently getting the better of him. "Mm mmm-mmm m mm m mm mm mm!"

"Mm-mm, mm mmm—" He cut himself off. Even he was doing it now.

_Malfoy, I can't understand a word—_

That was what he'd meant to say. He rolled his eyes and looked out the window. He couldn't see anything from down here on the floor, of course.

_I can't hear anything…_

No noise to indicate what those lime green robes were doing at the moment.

All he could hear was Malfoy breathing fast through his nose, presumably out of breath from the effort of trying to talk through his sealed lips.

Then Malfoy went, "Mm-mm," but softer this time, almost under his breath. He looked up.

Malfoy was—crying.

_What—_

He stared at Malfoy's eyes.

_Malfoy is crying silver tears._

Something—liquid—was welling in his eyes and spilling over, running into the corner of his eyes and down the side of his nose.

_What is that?_

It wasn't tears. It was a thick, almost viscous silvery fluid and it gleamed pearly-white in the light from the window.

_It's…_

Malfoy blinked and the silvery tears spilled onto his cheeks.

_The Pensieve…_

He remembered, as he'd seen it a dozen times, Dumbledore placing his wand to his forehead and drawing out the silvery substance, transferring it to the Pensieve. Granted, it had never come out of his eyes…

_And Malfoy doesn't even have a wand..._

Malfoy leaned forward a little.

_Does Malfoy want me to—_

Malfoy touched his fingers, tentatively, and ever so gently drew his hands toward him.

He jerked his hands away from Malfoy's touch and then he realised...

_Malfoy wants me to-touch his tears..._

Malfoy's eyes were brimming over with the silvery fluid, liquid light, which flowed over and fell over his cheeks and down his chin and dripping onto his black jeans.

_Merlin…_

_It must be memories._

_Malfoy's memories._

Transfixed, he raised his bound hands toward Malfoy's face. Malfoy closed his eyes like this was the most normal thing in the world. He didn't even seem to be afraid.

His fingers touched Malfoy's cheek and silvery liquid flowed into contact with his skin.

In an instant, images flooded his mind.

_Lime green robes._

_Bellatrix Lestrange._

_Bellatrix Lestrange, restrained and suspended in the air by witches and wizards in lime green robes._

_Bellatrix Lestrange, by herself in a room that looked a bit like a prison, except—_

St. Mungo's. Bellatrix Lestrange was on the closed ward at St. Mungo's.

The instant ended and the images were gone. He let out a breath that he realised he'd been holding.

_What in Merlin's sainted name was that—_

Underneath all that silver, Malfoy was pink from his forehead to the neck of his black t-shirt.

_Malfoy, the human Pensieve…_

Malfoy sat up again, and using his bound hands to push the comb out of his pocket, but careful not to touch it. Malfoy looked at him, deadly serious. He wasn't stupid, he could tell what Malfoy was trying to say-

_Let's go. Now._

It was strange how memory worked. When he'd seen Malfoy's visions, he'd realised: the lime green robes.

_St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries._

_St. Mungo's Mediwizards wear lime green robes._

He remembered now, he remembered the Christmas he'd spent on the closed ward during fifth year, when Mr. Weasley had been bitten by Nagini. He'd only just started having his visions, and no-one had believed him.

_No-one believed me._

_They didn't believe me._

_No-one did._

_Not even Ron and Hermione._

_Hermione said…_

It angered him to this day, what she had said.

_Hermione said I had a…a… 'saving people thing'…_

Malfoy was still staring at him, waiting.

_What do you want from me, Malfoy?_

It was weird. He'd spoken to Malfoy more since he'd defeated Voldemort than in the previous seven years. Now Malfoy was his bodyguard. The thought still made him want to laugh, but there it was.

He'd thought Ginny was his girlfriend, who loved him, but that wasn't true at all.

He'd thought Neville was a harmless fat nobody.

Everything was different. It had all changed.

_It's since I died._

_Since I died._

It was like a shower of ice had fallen on his head and shoulders. It hurt and it shocked and stunned all at once.

_It's not even about Riddle._

_It's…it's my death._

He had died and he had come back to life, and nothing was the same.

_I can see things now. I can see things clearly._

Before he died, the Resurrection Stone had let him see the dead.

_Now…_

_I can see the true nature of the living._

_I can see things how they really are._

Like the moment he'd gotten glasses when he was seven years old and the world had come into focus in an unexpected instant. That was what it was like.

_That's what it's been like since I came back to life._

When he was seven and he'd gotten his glasses, the surprise had come when he'd realised how fuzzy and indistinct everything had been before, by comparison. He just hadn't known what he was missing.

_It's like that now._

He inhaled and exhaled and felt as if he was being lifted up, upward into the sky or the stratosphere, because he had been so confused and he had felt so lost.

_I'm a different person now._

He looked at Malfoy, who was still sitting there, just looking at him and waiting. He heard the tramp of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside.

_Why am I still here?_

If Malfoy was taken to St. Mungo's, he'd probably have a hard time getting him out again, and he didn't know any other Death Eaters who could lead him to the rest of the Death Eaters so he could unleash retribution upon them.

_I need to find the rest of the Death Eaters._

_And I need to make them pay._

So he looked back at Malfoy, and sat up and did the only thing he could think of.

He reached out, opened his bound hands and closed them around Malfoy's arm.

_I really am alone now._

It was amazing how light he felt, as if a great burden had fallen from him.

_No-one else. Just me._

It was like...freedom.


	18. Wandless Magic

**Draco**

_Breathe._

_Just breathe._

He was still shaking all over and he felt slightly nauseous. His face was cold and he could still feel the thick fluid sliding down his cheeks.

_Come on, Potter._

He could hear the Mediwizards getting closer and closer. Potter was just sitting there.

_You saw Aunt Bella in Mungo's._

His heat was beating fast and he felt panic edging at him.

_He's right there—_

_I could just grab him—_

But he didn't dare. Sir's words came to his mind and he pictured his teacher standing in front of him, picured his facial expression.

_Trust requires vulnerability on both sides, Draco. The willing and voluntary dropping of defenses._

There were footsteps and voices in the corridor outside. It took all the strength he had not to just reach out and touch Potter.

But he didn't. He sat there and waited.

His heart began pounding frantically when he heard the click of the door opening and the sound of many voices rushed in.

_Please, Potter._

_Get me out of here._

Then Potter met his eyes and his heart leapt into his mouth. Potter lunged at him.

He was seized by the wild idea that Potter was about to kiss him.

Potter's hands seized his arm in a vicelike grip.

_Now. Now!_

Reason, or instinct, took over and he shoved his bound hands into his pocket and wrapped his fingers tightly around the metal comb. He felt the tug behind his navel that signalled the Portkey was active.

He caught a glimpse of the surprised faces of the Healers as the Portkey gave a powerful tug and he felt he was falling forward from a great height into oblivion, and the world disappeared in a swirl of blackness.

He felt himself falling, spinning wildly in the void, Potter clinging to his arm.

_I didn't even know._

He had hated Potter til he thought he had lost him.

_Hated his bravery._

_Hated his noble goodness._

And then his heart had burst open.

They span in space.

_I didn't know my own heart._

That long moment when Potter had stared at him and then raised his fingers and touched his cheek gently, so gently…

_I didn't even know I was in love with you._

Flying through nothingness with Potter, they were at peace together.

_For a dazzling moment._

_For now._

Then he tumbled abruptly into reality, sunshine and the hard, grassy ground. Potter crashed onto him like a ton of bricks. Potter's chin stabbed him in the cheek.

_Argh!_

_Fuck!_

Potter's legs slammed him in the stomach and knocked the breath out of him.

_Mother of Hecate, that hurts._

He groaned. He lay there with his eyes closed, waiting for the pain to recede.

Eventually it did, a little

The sun shone on his face and body, warm and strong.

_I want to sleep._

_I want to sleep so badly._

The wind rustled through the trees with a sound like waves on the seashore.

_I could just drift off, I really could…_

"Mm-mm," came a mumble from his left, and a poke in the shoulder.

_Potter, not now._

_Can't you see how nice it is here?_

Another poke. "Mm-mm!"

He opened his eyes reluctantly and looked at Potter hazily. Potter was sort of looking at him expectantly.

_What?_

Potter gestured at their surroundings. Sunlight. Trees.

_Wait._

This was where Shacklebolt's Portkey led?

_Where are we?_

This wasn't an Order of the Phoenix safehouse, and he didn't see any wizards or witches pointing wands at him. This wasn't anywhere he expected the Portkey to take them.

_What is going on…?_

They both sat there, staring around mutely. He was quite lost for words, not that it mattered with the muzzling charm still in place.

All he knew for sure was that they seemed to be, for the moment, safe. Neither of them had a wand and his weekender was still in the Forbidden Forest, where he had left it when Potter had decided to visit the Hog's Head.

_Well…_

It couldn't hurt to try again. He was so exhausted that he couldn't believe the memory spell had worked. He might as well chance it again.

_What have I got to lose?_

Besides his last reserves of energy, that was.

He lay back down and closed his eyes and let his senses rule his mind. The hot sun above. The prickling grass under him. The sound of the wind in the trees like the waves of the sea whispering on the sand.

_Move._

_Move._

_Move._

_Move…_

"Mm…"

_Move._

"Mmmm…"

_Move._

"Mmmmmmmm—"

_Move._

He felt it. His lip gave. Just the tiniest bit of give. His lip slipped—just a little.

_Move!_

_Move!_

_Move!_

"MmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmOVE!" His lips parted company. The word burst from him. It had never felt so good to speak before.

He gasped, scarcely believing what he'd just done.

_Sir, I did it._

_It wasn't just a fluke._

_I really did wandless magic properly._

Potter was sitting there very still, tensed like a cat which has sighted prey, twisting his head in all directions and looking around him. The collar of his t-shirt had gotten ripped somehow, exposing his collarbone.

Potter looked so good he just drank him in, every inch of him.

He remembered that moment when Potter had lunged toward him and he'd thought Potter was going to kiss him.

_If I kissed Potter, I could—_

He met Potter's eyes just as he had this thought and his heart squeezed—

_Oh, Potter, I could unseal your lips—_

"Ah!" Potter gasped. "Oh—Merlin!" He spluttered, and twisted around, looking around frantically and shouted, "Who's—who's there? Kinglsey?"

He realised what Potter was doing.

_He's looking for the source of the magic._

_He doesn't realise I did it._

"Kingsley!" Potter called. "Quick, cast diffindo! I'm tied up!"

Potter's voice rang out into the trees. In reply, a wood pigeon cooed.

The wind blew through the trees.

"Kingsley! Over here!"

"It wasn't Shacklebolt, Potter, it was me."

Potter stared at him for a moment, then hit him in the jaw.

He toppled backward in sheer surprise and then Potter was on top of him, pummeling his shoulders, head, wherever he could reach. His hands were trapped underneath Potter and he couldn't move them.

"What kind of Dark magic was that, Malfoy?"

"Po—tter—stop—"

"What kind of Dark Arts are you doing on me? Eh?"

"Not—Dark—"

"Kingsley!"

He jack knifed his legs toward his chest with all the strength he had and managed to unseat Potter and roll on top of him. He could have whacked Potter in the plums since Potter had been sitting right on top of his arms, but he didn't. He just dug his elbows into Potter's sternum and said, "It's wandless magic, Potter. That's all."

Potter winced. "Get off," he said.

"Potter? It's not Dark magic, alright?"

_You have to believe me._

Potter didn't meet his eyes.

"Alright?"

_Please?_

"Whatever," Potter muttered under his breath.

He rolled off Potter and rubbed his face with his hands and through his hair.

_My hands._

His hands were free.

_What in Hecate's name…_

He looked at his feet. The cords around them were falling off. He looked around and saw, lying a little way off, the cords that had bound his wrists. He began rubbing his wrists, half because they were sore from having been bound together, half just in disbelief.

He looked at Potter, who was uncoiling the cord from his feet with the same bewildered expression on his face that must be on his own.

_How did that happen?_

The charm that kept the cords tightly bound must have dissolved at the same time the muzzling curse was lifted, but he hadn't noticed because Potter had attacked him and the instinct to defend himself had made him forget about the cords.

_Oh my Hecate…_

He just couldn't believe how much wandless magic he'd just done.

_Sir, you won't believe this, listen—_

But Sir was dead.

Why did he keep forgetting that?


	19. I Don't Cry

**Harry**

He shook the ropes off and stood up. He was shaking and his heart was racing. 

“Kingsley!”

There was no answer. 

“Who’s out there?”

He couldn’t see anyone. Could there be someone there, camouflaged or concealed magically? Someone under an invisibility cloak?

“There’s no-one there, Potter,” Malfoy said. “It was me.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” he said. He walked toward a large tree, as quiet as he could be. Maybe there was someone concealed behind it. It was hard to be quiet in this forest, though. There was always something underfoot rustling or making noise. He stepped on a branch and it snapped audibly. 

_Dammit._

That had given him away. He gave up and just marched up to the tree and walked around it. 

_No-one._

He stared around the forest. 

_Where are in Merlin’s name are we, anyway?_

_Where's Kingsley?_

_They should be here to get Malfoy..._

He frowned, realisation dawning on him that he'd been stupid. He'd been very, very stupid. 

_Kingsley sent those lime green wizards._

_Kingsley has been doing all of this._

_Of course._

He closed his eyes. Of course it wasn't Ginny and Neville who had sent the lime green robes. 

_How could I be so stupid to think that._

Ginny and Neville weren't somehow in charge all of a sudden. That was ridiculous. They were just scared kids, like everyone else. 

_The Order of the Phoenix is behind this._

The Order... 

"Malfoy," he called. "Let's get out of here."

_The Order always thought they knew best..._

“No, Potter,” Malfoy began. 

_They treated me like a kid who knew nothing._

“Don’t start, Malfoy,” he said, turning and starting to walk into the trees. “Just come on.”

 _But really--_ really-- _they were counting on me to defeat Voldemort._

“But, Potter—”

_They just couldn't admit..._

“Malfoy!” He snapped, “You’re my prisoner, remember?”

_Couldn't admit they were powerless._

Malfoy just stood there and pointed. He was pointing to his right, off into the trees. 

_What?_

He looked.

He saw trees. Branches. Leaves. 

_Wow. Amazing._

“Great work, Malfoy. You found a tree,” he turned and started walking again. 

 _Silence_. 

He turned back around again. He was getting annoyed now. He wanted to be walking through the forest, going somewhere, not standing here with Malfoy like a lump. 

_I'm going on my own mission now._

_And no-one can tell me what to do!_

“Okay, what?” He said, reluctantly going to stand next to Malfoy. 

Then he saw it.

_Oh…_

There it was, poking above the highest branches. He must have been standing at the wrong angle. It must have been hidden by a tree.

It was the Astronomy Tower. 

“Thank Hecate for that,” Malfoy breathed, and he started walking. “I think if we go around this way for a bit we’ll end up at the front gates.”

He watched Malfoy go for a bit and then slowly started to follow. 

_I’ve felt other people weighing me down ever since I can remember._

Friendship was supposed to be a good thing. And maybe he had thought it was, at first. Maybe he’d been seduced by it, at first, when he was very young and still stupid enough to fall for it.

_What an idiot._

He’d gone along with Hermione’s nagging and Ron’s harebrained ideas. He’d been betrayed so many times and he’d gone back again and again. He’d accepted apologies. 

_No more._

His mistake had been thinking that they could understand. 

_What a stupid, silly little boy._

He'd always told himself that friends were all he needed. He didn't need adults like other kids did. Didn't need parents.

_And I don't._

_I don't need any of that._

He remembered Dumbledore's portrait, fast asleep, refusing to wake up. 

_I still fell for it, though._

He'd fallen for Dumbledore. He'd trusted him. 

_I trusted…_

He wished he'd put Dumbledore's portrait in the fire. He would have watched it burning in the fireplace, dripping gold paint onto the logs.

_Mad-Eye…_

_Lupin…_

_Sirius…_

_Stop!_

In his mind’s eye he saw that stupid, scared, small kid from his dream. The one who was supposed to be his youngest son, but was actually himself getting on the Hogwarts Express for the first time. 

_Dumb kid. Stupid, stupid kid._

_Don’t fall for it, kid._

He pushed his fists into his eye sockets and was shocked when they came away wet. 

_What?_

He wasn’t crying, was he? 

_No!_

_I don’t cry._

It was all Hagrid’s fault. When Hagrid had come and given him his Hogwarts letter, he’d given him something. 

He’d given him a second chance. 

He’d given him hope. 

_Fuck you, Hagrid._


	20. Dropping Of Defences

**Draco**

Potter was crying.

He was obviously trying to be quiet about it, but there was no mistaking the sound.

_Shit._

He still wasn't sure why the portkey had dumped them in the grounds of Hogwarts. There was no sign of a welcoming committee waiting to clap him in irons and ship him off to Azkaban. Potter's very logical reaction to the situation had been to command him to start walking through the forest.

_Personally I would be apparating out of here as soon as possible._

But then Potter's subsequent logical reaction, apparently, was tears.

And he had no idea how to react to that. He forced himself to keep looking straight ahead, to just keep walking.

_What am I supposed to do?_

Potter kept sniffing in that particular way that people only did when they were crying. Then he heard a choked hiccough.

_Oh, fuck._

Potter was about to lose his shit on the outskirts of Hogwarts with only Draco Malfoy for company.

_Remember, Draco._

_Trust requires vulnerability on both sides._

_The willing and voluntary dropping of defences._

A series of choking sounds competed with birdsong and the rustling leaves.

_Sir._

_I don't think this vulnerability is_ voluntary.

Potter was unmistakeably sobbing at this point.

As quietly and noiselessly as he could, perhaps, but sobbing all the same.

_Oh, Hecate's hump._

He kept walking but he wished, with all his might, that he lived in a world where it wasn't like this.

_I wish-_

_I wish I could..._

Potter's footsteps had stopped.

The noiseless sobbing went on, just the sound of quick, laboured breathing punctuated by hiccoughs.

His stomach felt fluttery and nervous and his throat had closed up as if he were going to start crying himself.

 _Potter will AK me if I_ _acknowledge, in any way, shape or form, that he's crying ._

He forced himself to keep walking.

 _But Potter, you saw_ me _crying._

He touched his hand to his chest.

_Fucking ironic, isn't it?_

He stopped walking, then, and leaned against a tree, leaving Potter far enough behind that he would feel he had some privacy.

_I wish it were different._

_I wish…_

He wished he was Potter's best friend right now. He wished he had been there with Potter through all of it.

_I wish I hadn't fucked it all up._

He thought of Sir's patient face, always there, always teaching him hour after hour, month after month, year after year. Sir had taught him when he was tired, when he was sick, when Sir had spent his days facing danger, facing death.

Sir had kept his secrets, even from his own parents.

_Sir knows everything about me._

_And now he's dead._

Again he saw in his mind's eye Sir lying dead, half on the floor, half in his father's arms. Sir's blood had seeped onto the floor and his father's robes, but his father hadn't noticed. His father just kept kissing Sir's face and saying, "Don't leave. Please don't leave. I love you, I love you, I love you."

_I love you too, Sir._

He realised that the tears were pouring down his face. He wiped at them with his sleeve.

_I'm going to make you proud, Sir._

_I promise you._

_You didn't die in vain._

_I will get Potter's trust._

_I will carry out my mission._

"Potter," he called out, careful not to look behind, "I'm just going to get my bag. Alright? I'll be back in a few minutes."

There was no reply.

He set off walking again and it wasn't long before the tree coverage broke and he found himself approaching the path that led from Hogsmeade village to the school. He watched for a few minutes in case there was any traffic, but there wasn't a soul in sight. Even if there was someone watching, he would just have to take his chances.

_I'm as defenseless as a Muggle._

He took a deep breath and dashed out from under the tree cover, straight across the path and into the trees on the far side. He walked for about fifteen minutes, until he started to hear it.

_Peep…peep…_

It got louder as he got closer.

_Peep…peep…peep..._

It only took him a couple more minutes to find it, sitting underneath a clump of flowering bushes where he had shoved it when Potter whisked him off to the Hog's Head. He pulled it out, unzipped it and turned off the homing device inside. It was tuned so only he could hear it. It had belonged to Sir.

He found the wand at the bottom of the bag and took it out and put it in his pocket with a sense of immense relief. Spending any amount of time without a wand still made him feel profoundly vulnerable.

_Sorry, Sir._

_A few wandless spells does not a mage make._

Still, it gave him a warm feeling to imagine Sir's reaction to his bits of wandless magic just now. It was far, far more than he had ever managed before.

_Well done, Draco._

He could almost hear Sir's voice saying it.

He checked through the contents to make sure everything was still there (it was), and then he dug out his mobile phone and called his mum.

The tone rang out for a long time before she answered.

"Yes, Draco?"

"Hi, mum?"

"Are you alright?"

"Mum, Potter wants to find the Servants."

"What?" His mother's voice was suddenly sharp where it had been, before, a little distracted.

"He's got it in his head he wants to find the Servants. The ones that got away."

"Out of the question."

His heart sank. "But, mum…"

"Draco, that's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard. Why in Hecate's name would Harry want to do a thing like that?"

"Well, not many of them were captured by the Light, and…"

"Draco, most of them were slain."

"But some are still out there, mum."

"And what of it?"

"I—I mean, aren't they still dangerous?"

"Moths will flock to a flame, Draco. What happens when that flame goes out?"

"I, er—I don't know."

"Exactly. Worms only come out when it rains. The rain is over."

"This is too many nature metaphors for me, Mummy."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone. "Don't be clever, Draco."

"Mum," he said, taking a deep breath, but he could feel himself getting hot and flustered in the face of his mother's implacable logic.

"You have more important matters to attend to, Draco."

"Mum, you don't understand—Potter—Harry—he's determined to find them. He needs to bring them to justice. It's the right thing to do."

There was silence on the end of the phone.

Then, "Draco. Have you told him about your mission or not?"

_Um._

He picked up a leaf and started crumbling it into flakes in his fist.

"That's what I thought."

He crumbled another leaf.

Another sigh. Then she said, more gently, "Draco. He may be surprised, even disbelieving at first. He may find it difficult to accept. After all, it goes against everything he's been told for the entirety of his life as wizard."

He stared at the ground, his heart pounding like a bass drum.

"But Draco, Harry trusts you. You're his best friend. Have a little faith in him and you'll see, it will be returned to you in spades."

"Yr—" he croaked, "Yr—yeah. You're, erm, you're right, Mum."

"Yes, Draco. I am."

"Okay, Mum. Are you doing it—tonight?"

"Yes, darling. Tonight. While defenses are still down. Hark, I hear your father. Good-bye, Draco. Keep in touch."

The call disconnected. He dropped the phone back into the leather weekender and cast his eyes up to the sky.

One word came to mind.

_Fuck._


	21. Where Have You Been?

"Potter," Malfoy's voice came softly through the trees.

_Thank you Merlin._

The rustling that had accompanied Malfoy's voice stopped. "Potter…"

_I thought he'd escaped._

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm here, Malfoy."

After a moment, "Are you…okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Malfoy," he replied. "I just walked through a cloud of Gnargles and I'm allergic to them."

"Oh, er, okay. Is the, er. Are the Gnargles gone now?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Malfoy. The Gnargles are gone. You can come out now."

The rustling got louder and Malfoy appeared from behind a large tree nearby.

_I can't believe he came back._

Malfoy had a reputation for intelligence, but clearly that was unfounded.

_What an idiot._

Malfoy was carrying a big leather bag over his shoulder. He set it down and crouched down on the ground, clearly not wanting to sit on the damp loam.

"Where did you get that bag?" He asked sharply.

Malfoy glanced at it and shrugged. "I left it behind when you wanted to go to the Hog's Head."

"What? When did you do that?"

Malfoy smirked. "None of your fucking business."

_Oh._

He had let Malfoy go and piss on his own, because he wasn't about to stand guard and watch  _that_.

"I don't remember you having a bag with you, though."

"I did. I had it with me when we escaped from Gryffindor Tower."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I did."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did, Potter. You're just not very observant."

"Fuck you. How did you get it if you were locked in the Head Boy's room the whole time?"

"I had a House Elf bring it from my room in Slytherin House." Malfoy's top lip curled into a brazen grin.

_Smug git._

"You can wipe that look off your face," he snapped. "It's bad enough I have to be around you at all. I don't need to see your smirking mug while I'm at it."

Malfoy went very pale in the face. He stood up slowly.

_That shut him up._

"Your friends didn't say a word when Weasley and Longbottom tied you up and took your wand. I'm starting to understand why."

"What the fuck do you know about it."

"A lot more than you, apparently, Potter."

"What d'you mean?"

"Didn't you  _know_  Weasley and Longbottom were fucking?"

Now he felt his own face drain of blood. "Weasley, you mean Ron Weasley? My best friend?"

"Some best friend," Malfoy muttered, "if you need to escape him off the top of a tower on a broomstick. And damn you to an early grave for putting that horrific image in my mind. No, Potter,  _Weasley._ That flame-haired bitch from hell. Virginia or whatever her name is."

"She's not my girlfriend anymore," he muttered, barely listening to Malfoy. He was remembering the hideous moment when he'd realised his dream-wife was not Ginny.

_Not Ginny at all…_

"Yah, Potter. I know. The whole of  _Hogwarts_  knows since that hilarious evening the two of them had a flaming row in the Great Hall during dinner, then proceeded to start pashing right on top of the Gryffindor table, her hair trailing in the gravy and everything."

He stared at Malfoy. He had to be lying.

"Where have you  _been_ , Potter?" Malfoy said, half-laughing, half-quizzical. He met Malfoy's eyes and he realised there was a real question there.

He dropped his gaze. "I was out saving the world, as it happens," he muttered. "I didn't exactly have time to worry about petty stuff like that."

"You know the story going around was that Longbottom was really the Chosen One? That he was going to defeat the Reptile?"

"Whatever," he mumbled, looking at the ground.

_This is all bullshit._

"Dumbledore's Army were saying they were going to defeat him. They left graffiti all over the school. There was a rumour that they had the sword of Gryffindor."

He ground his teeth together.

"Why should I believe any of this?" He asked, shaking his head to clear it of lies and standing up so that he was eye to eye with Malfoy.

Malfoy's clear silver eyes gazed directly at him. "Do you think I'm lying, Potter?"

He turned away.

_I don't want to hear this shit._

_I don't care about any of that any more._

"Look, Malfoy, I know you enjoy making me feel like shit but you'd better give it a rest now."

Malfoy looked alarmed. "No, I'm…I'm on  _your_  side, Potter. Can't you see that?"

"What d'you mean you're 'on my side'?" He growled. "You're a Death Eater and you're my prisoner."

"I'm not a Death Eater!" Malfoy exclaimed, suddenly pink in the face. "I never wanted to  _be_  a  _fucking_  Death Eater!"

_Oh Merlin, here we go again._

"You—"

"No, Potter. I'm not a Death Eater and I'm not your prisoner. I'm your sworn mage."

_Brilliant._

"You're my what?"

Another thing he had never heard of.

"Sworn mage, Potter! Sworn to defend your life as you defended mine," Malfoy was bright pink now.

Suddenly he had that feeling again. That feeling he'd had so many times since he'd come to the wizarding world. All he could see was that dumb kid standing on the platform nine and three quarters, knowing nothing. An outsider. A foreigner.

_I'm not!_

_I'm not a … a Muggle._

"I may not be a stuck up, rich pureblood wizard like you, Malfoy, but that doesn't mean you can treat me like a complete idiot just for not knowing what Debby vitay is, alright?"

Malfoy laughed.

He wanted to punch him in the face. He settled for the arm. Malfoy stepped back, raising his hands in surrender.

"Sorry, Potter. I'm sorry."

_Sorry?_

_This is…not right. Something about this is not right._

He looked Malfoy in the eye and looked at him for a long time, waiting to see if Malfoy was going to back down. Finally he said, "Why are you doing this?"

Malfoy looked back at him, and after a moment he saw Malfoy's expression falter and he looked away. "I've told you. I've told you a million times," Malfoy muttered. "You saved my life."

"The real reason."

Malfoy looked so uncomfortable, squirming on the spot and not making eye contact. Malfoy stared at the ground, his cheeks pink again. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

_Of course not._

After a moment Malfoy raised his head and looked him in the eye. "Look at it this way, Potter. What choice have you got?"

He looked back at Malfoy.

It was all starting to fall into place now.

Malfoy's eyes were very clear and silver. "If you want to find Death Eaters, who else is going to help you? I'm your only option. Whether you like it or not, Potter."

_I get it now._

Malfoy wasn't doing this out of some far-fetched sense of chivalry. The reason was very simple, and he was an idiot not to have realised it before.

_The Death Eaters want me._

_They want revenge for Riddle's death._

_Malfoy's leading me straight into a trap._

He straightened up, cocked his head at Malfoy.

"Fine by me, Malfoy."

_Danger? Pain? Death?_

_I'm Harry fucking Potter._

_I've been there, done that._

"Let's stop wasting time and get moving."

_So bring it on._


	22. Mental Maladies

**Draco**

"Fine by me, Malfoy. Let's stop wasting time and get moving." Potter turned into the forest and marched off.

_Oh, Hecate._

He hefted his weekender over his shoulder and followed.

_You wouldn't believe me if I told you._

His conversation with his mother was still fresh in his mind. Just thinking about it set a queasy mixture of anxiety and shame through his system.

_Why are you doing this?_

Potter's eyes had pierced right through him. No-one had eyes like Potter's. No-one.

_Is that why I fell in love with him?_

_Those eyes…_

That brilliant emerald green, deep as a forest or polished malachite.

He sighed and adjusted the weekender bag across his shoulders.

_You wouldn't believe me if I told you._

Potter was walking fast, fast like he was angry, which he probably was, because he hadn't told Potter the real reason. He'd just stood there and said those words, his mind racing, trying to figure out what to say.

 _You wouldn't believe me if I told you_.

He sighed.

When he figured out what was going on, Sir had sent him an Owl:

_Draco, come and see me this evening after dinner._

Sir had come and found him in the Hospital Wing, and had just looked at him silently for a long time. Sir had such large eyes and such a gentle expression. It was impossible to imagine Sir angry. But he could imagine Sir disappointed.

 _Please don't tell Mum and Dad. Please don't tell them the truth. I'm sorry,_ he'd whispered, tears coursing down his face.

Far worse than anger, the disappointment.

But it had never come.

Sir had just patted him gently on his good arm and said,  _It's alright, Draco. It's going to be alright._

Perhaps that was what had made Sir such a great spy. His ability to keep other people's secrets.

He tramped along behind Potter, who was clearing walking without any direction or clue where he was going.

_Sir was my best friend._

He'd always thought that he didn't have a best friend, didn't need one.

 _I thought I didn't need friends at all_.

If he couldn't have Potter, he hadn't wanted anyone. No-one was good enough, compared to Potter. No-one could make the grade. But Sir had been his best friend. His first friend and in all the ways that counted, his only friend.

_And now he's dead._

Sir had promised to help with Potter.

_Once you go over to the Light, I'll be able to work on Harry for you, Draco._

_He hates me,_ he'd muttered. _He'll never give me a chance._

Sir had just looked at him in his quiet, assured way.  _Don't be so sure,_ Sir had said with a small smile.  _Harry trusts me. He'll listen to me. You're not alone in this, Draco._

He felt as if the tears were going to start again.

_But I am alone now._

He walked along, squinting against the late afternoon sunshine where it pierced here and there through the leaves, following Potter to Hecate knew where.

_Potter has no idea._

_He expects me to lead him._

But lead him where? He had no idea where the other Servants had gone— the ones who had survived.

_Unfortunately._

Potter might assume that since he bore the Dark Mark, he was all chummy with the Reptile's supporters. Potter might assume that he had an easy and reliable way to contact them.

_Both of which are so very far from the truth._

_Voldemort didn't like your father._

_He didn't like_ you _._

Potter was right about that.

He could only imagine the reaction if Avery or Rookwood or any of them--Hecate only knew which of them was still alive, anyway--answered the doorbell to find him standing on the threshold.

_Hi, Draco Malfoy here. Remember, the one you sexually harrassed for a solid year?_

_'That little blond shirtlifter', isn't that what you called me?_

_Look, I want some information about the Servants so Potter here can wreak fiery revenge againt the lot of you._

_Are you putting the kettle on, then?_

He almost laughed.

_This is what separates me from Sir._

Sir would have been invited inside for a glass of Firewhiskey within ten minutes.

_Sir was just that good._

He would never stop being in awe of Sir, never. He remembered when Sir had first told him about his double life, he hadn't really believed it. It was only once he'd seen Sir doing it with his own eyes, day in and day out, that he began to respect Sir for it.

_And realised how much of a fuck-up I was._

_As if I didn't know already._

He sighed. Potter was still walking on ahead, seemingly tirelessly.

_You wouldn't believe me if I told you._

Potter had noticed his disobedience to the Reptile. That was something. It had to prove something, didn't it? How could he disobey a direct order if he was the good little Death Eater Potter wanted him so badly to be?

_How can you think I'm in with them, Potter?_

_Can't you see that I hate them?_

Sir's words came back to him as they always did.

_It's hard for Harry to see that, Draco, when you are seen as allied with your father._

_I know, Sir,_  he'd said.  _But I can't…I can't go over to them now. Potter hates me, Sir. You know him so well. You know how much he hates me._

_It will be hard for Harry to see that you hate Tom, Draco, if you are one of his Servants._

_I know, Sir,_ he'd said, and he'd been crying that time, he remembered.

_I can't do this for you, Draco._

_I know, I know, I know,_  he'd sobbed, and he'd probably thrown something delicate against the granite walls in his anger and misery.

He realised with a start that he'd lost sight of Potter. He stopped and stared around him and he saw nothing but empty woods, with not a human in sight.

_Oh Hecate._

_Where is he._

He walked forward cautiously, checking his back pocket for his wand, looking around constantly. Potter seemed to have just vanished from the face of the Earth.

_Wait—_

He had caught a sound, carried to him on the wind.

_Is that—_

He froze behind a tree and tried not to breathe.

There was the sound again. He took hold of his wand and performed a charm to enhance the sound. The sounds resolved themselves into human voices, whispering nearby. He turned his head slowly to try and locate where they were coming from.

_Potter's Invisibility Cloak._

"Please believe me. We thought that Malfoy had kidnapped you—"

"Malfoy! Kidnap me!"

"The others weren't sure if you were under Polyjuice. The others-Neville, and Ginny, and-"

"I don't want to hear about them—"

"But they're really sorry about what happened, alright, Harry? They want to apologise."

Silence followed this pronouncement.

He couldn't stand it any longer. He stepped out from behind the tree and shouted, "Don't listen to her, Potter!"

Potter emerged from nothingness about thirty feet away. "Oh, shut up, Malfoy," Potter said casually.

_Ow._

Potter's voice boomed in his ears. He quickly reversed the sound amplifying charm.

"Potter, that was the Mental Maladies team. They send them after wizards and witches who are-" he fumbled for the words. "Mentally ill," he said finally.

Potter smirked. "Count your lucky stars, Malfoy. First I saved your life, then I saved you from bunking with Lockhart."

"They were coming for you, Potter," he said softly. "That's why they tied you up."

Potter span around to face Granger, triumphant laughter in his voice. "Hermione, did you hear that!"

Granger stared, stricken, back at Potter, for just a fraction of a second too long.

_Granger is a terrible liar._

"Hermione?"

"Oh—yeah—of course. He told all of us he was in debito vitae to you!" She laughed loudly. "Clearly he's delusional."

"So you know what it is," Potter said. His voice and manner were rather cold all of a sudden.

"Debito vitae?" Granger replied, looking surprised. "Yes, of course. Also known as a life debt—"

"Shut up," Potter snapped suddenly, and then grabbed hold of his arm and shoved him toward Granger.

_Oi!_

"You want Malfoy? Take him. I don't need him anyway. I can find Death Eaters on my own. It'll be a good laugh to picture him on the closed ward in Mungo's. Have fun with Lockhart, Malfoy."

Potter span on his heel and started walking away. Granger bolted after him. "Harry, no, please. I understand how you feel—"

Potter stopped on the spot and looked at her. " _You_."

"Yes, I—"

"How could you possibly know how I feel?"

Granger shrank back, looking hurt.

"Have you ever died, Hermione?" Potter asked, his eyes boring into her.

She shook her head, looking close to tears. "No, but…"

"Have you walked past the ghosts of everyone you've ever loved and gone willingly to your death?"

Granger was staring back at Potter silently now.

"Well?" Potter said. "Have you?"

Potter was livid, his eyes blazing.

"That's it… You just said it, Harry," Granger said quietly. She no longer looked like she was about to burst into tears. She looked... angry. She straightened her shoulders, and her voice was clear and steady. "The ghosts of everyone you ever loved. But what about the rest of us, who are still alive? You don't care about us at all, do you?"

Potter looked taken aback, speechless even.

"For my part," Granger continued, "I've tried to love you, Harry. I've tried to be a friend to you. But there are limits."

"Now, hold on a second," Potter began.

Granger held up her hand and interrupted him. "I can't do this any more. You need help, Harry. I think you should go with the mediwizards, not try to fight them. They're only trying to help you. "

Potter stared at her, horror written all over his face.

He saw Granger put her hand into her pocket.

_Shit._

"Potter," he called, running toward them as fast as he could, "she's calling someone—she's calling them—"

_Hecate's hump—_

He was surrounded. Appearing as silently as rising steam, the mediwizards had Apparated into the glade around them. There were four of them. Had they followed them from the Hog's Head? How had they found Potter? How had  _Granger_ found Potter?

_Potter!_

_Oh, Hecate—_

He could see it now.

The moment one of those mediwizards got hold of Potter, he or she would immediately Apparate away.

_This is it._

At this moment, Potter was caught between his allegiance to the Light and something else. Something else was happening within Potter. He didn't know what it was, but he'd never seen Potter like this. He made eye contact briefly with Potter and a flare of elation and fear tore through his soul.

 _Hecate, Potter, you'll be the death of me_.

What was behind that look, behind that emerald glance?

_If they take him now, he'll be lost to us forever._

He was still running toward Potter as fast as he could, not looking left. Not looking right. Not deviating. Not hesitating.

_If they take you, you'll be lost to me forever._

He was about to collide into Potter. He flung out his arms.

_Trust, Draco. The willing and voluntary dropping of defenses._

Potter didn't trust him as far as he could throw him. He knew that. But Potter didn't trust the Light either, now.

 _Not entirely_.

 _Trust is like the bedrock,_  Sir had told him. _Always there at the foundation, unnoticed and unsaid. But that bedrock, so immovable, can crack. It can splinter into pieces. And once that has happened, it can never be whole again. Not as it was before._

_But Potter doesn't trust me._

_There is no bedrock to be cracked between me and Potter._

_I can't break what doesn't exist._

_I can't lose a trust I don't have._

And right now, he knew what he needed to do.

He crashed right into Potter, flung his arms around him, pulled him as close as he could, closed his eyes, and Apparated.

The world faded away.

_Fuck you, Lightbunnies._

_I'm taking Potter._

_I'm taking him home._


	23. I Bid You Welcome

**Harry**

 

“So  _you_  know what it is,” he said, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. 

_Am I the only one who’s never heard of this thing?_

“Debito vitae?” Hermione replied, looking surprised. “Yes, of course. Also known as a life debt, it’s part of the ancient chivalric code which underlies—”

_Oh Merlin—_

“Shut up,” he said. 

_I can’t listen to another word._

_Why does she always know everything?_

He reached out and grabbed Malfoy’s arm, shoving him toward Hermione. 

_How come she’s always one step ahead of me?_

“You want Malfoy? Take him. I don’t need him anyway. I can find Death Eaters on my own. It’ll be a good laugh to picture him on the closed ward in Mungo’s. Have fun with Lockhart, Malfoy.” He turned and kept walking, trying to leave her behind.

_I’ve had enough._

_I don’t need to be reminded I’m a—_

_I’m a—_

“Harry, please. I understand how you feel—”

_I’m sorry?_

“You.”

Hermione had run after him and now stood there, staring at him. “Yes, I—”

_No._

_You don’t._

_I was never meant to be—left out._

“How could you possibly know how I feel?”

_I should know all of this._

_I should know what everyone else knows._

_Not you._

Hermione stared back at him. 

_If she starts crying again…_

“Have you ever died, Hermione?” He asked. Now he just wanted her to feel some inkling of the hurt he felt. 

_You’ve been crying for months._

_Why? Because you like Ron?_  

She shook her head. “No, but…”

_That’s nothing._

“Have you walked past the ghosts of everyone you’ve ever loved and gone willingly to your death?”

_You have nothing to cry about._

Hermione said nothing. She was just about to start crying—he could just see it—

_Come on, then._

“Well?” he said. “Have you?”

_Cry._

“That’s it…” Hermione said quietly, staring at her shoes. 

He waited, and he knew it was wrong and horrible, but all he wanted was to hurt her and know that she felt some small part of his pain.

“You just said it, Harry,” she raised her face and looked at him. Her expression had changed. “The ghosts of everyone you ever loved. But what about the rest of us, who are still alive? You don’t give two shits about us, do you?”

_That’s… not the point._

“For my part,” Hermione continued, “I’ve tried to love you, Harry. I’ve tried to be a friend to you. But there are limits. And I can’t do this any more.” 

_I beg your pardon?_

_You’re making this about you?_

“Now, hold on a second,” he said. 

_You’re not about to make me out as the villain in this._

Hermione flashed him a look of pure scorn. “You need help, Harry. I think you should go with the mediwizards, not try to fight them. They’re only there to try to help you. ” 

_What did you just say._

And then he was surrounded by the wizards and witches in lime green robes. 

_They must have followed Malfoy from the Hog’s Head._

He registered this fact with a certain sense of detachment. If they wanted to take Malfoy, so be it. 

_I can do it without him._

_How hard can it be?_

Or more to the point, how much use would Malfoy have been, anyway? As soon as the wizards appeared, Malfoy had started running toward him as fast as he could. 

_Here he comes, expecting me to protect him._

_Merlin, Malfoy is a coward._

He looked at Malfoy, who was clearly panicking, with a twinge of pity, much as he’d felt when he’d seen Malfoy crying in the bathroom last year. 

_He’s not cut out for this._

_BAM!_

Malfoy barrelled into him and the world closed in and he felt the iron strangehold of Apparition take hold of him. 

_What—_

He was suffocating, struggling to breathe.

_Is—_

Malfoy was wrapped tightly around his left side, clinging on for dear life. 

_Going—_

_On—_

Then with a sudden burst of freedom and great rush of fresh air he was tumbling onto the grassy ground. He rolled, and rolled, and came to a stop. 

_Merlin._

“Get up. Get up, Potter,” Malfoy’s voice was gruff and he felt a tug on his arm, stronger than he would expect. He got to his feet and Malfoy started dragging him along urgently.

_Get._

_Off!_

He wrenched himself free and stood there, panting, and finally took in his surroundings. They were still in the countryside, but there was no forest in sight. Instead he saw a muddy field surrounded by a tall, thick hedge, with a horse grazing the grass at the far end near a clump of spruce trees. Beyond the field there was another field and beyond that, another, separated by dark green hedges.

They seemed to be totally alone. 

_Where in Merlin’s name are we?_

“Potter, come on. They’re following you,” Malfoy said, walking quickly across the field toward the fence. Beyond the fence was a narrow track backed by a tall, dense hedge of hawthorn which stretched as far as he could see to either side before his perspective was broken by the roll and dip of the land. 

“How could they follow us, Malfoy?” He retorted. “And what makes you think you can just Side-along me like that? How dare you?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Malfoy replied, striding across the field. “But I don’t exactly think we should stick around to find out.”

Did Malfoy really think he was stupid enough to fall for this?

“They’re not following me, Malfoy,” he called. “They’re following you. They’re trying to arrest you. Hello, you’re the Death Eater in all of this. You nutter,” he muttered under his breath.

Malfoy’s actions just confirmed his suspicions. Obviously Malfoy wanted to escape the mediwizards, or whoever they really were, but he couldn’t leave without him. 

_He’s taking me to them._

_He can’t go back empty-handed._

_He'll really be in the shit if he comes back without Harry Potter._

_The one who killed their master._

He watched Malfoy marching along ahead of him, his silver hair being lifted and blown around by the evening breeze. Everything about Malfoy was so polished. He took precise, swishing steps. His jeans were turned up at the hem above his white hi-top trainers. As Malfoy’s arms swayed, he could just see the Dark Mark poking out from the sleeve of his black t-shirt, on his slender wrist.

He remembered all of a sudden that moment earlier in the day when Aberforth had watched Malfoy using the Floo to make a firecall and he’d had the distinct impression that Abe had been looking at Malfoy’s—

_At his arse._

Aberforth was looking at Malfoy’s arse. Why had he been doing that? Why anyone would want to stare at Malfoy’s skinny bum was beyond him. 

_Except now I’m doing it, too._

He averted his eyes. 

“They are so following you, Potter,” Malfoy said. He had come to a stop by a sty in the hedge which bordered the field. “They’re either using the Trace or some other form of tracking. Either way it won’t take them long to figure out where we Apparated to.”

He scowled at Malfoy. 

_He sounds like Hermione._

Except Malfoy had probably been born knowing more about the wizarding world than he, Harry, did after six years at Hogwarts. Malfoy came from an ancient family which had probably made sure he learned magic from a baby. 

_I hate him._

It didn’t matter if Malfoy was mean and spiteful and cowardly and believed in blood purity. Malfoy still had the jump on him as a wizard. And he was never going to be able to beat that.

_Ever._

Malfoy was the arsehole, and he was the good guy. Malfoy’s side had lost. He had defeated the evil lord and saved the world. 

_But I still  got the short straw._

At the end of the day, when it came to magic, it was always him who was left looking like the idiot.

_Hermione worked day and night to learn about magic._

_To learn about the wizarding world._

_To catch up._

_Catch up with those who were raised as wizards._

He'd never done that. In fact... quite the opposite... he'd been an indifferent student, at best. 

 _I shouldn't have_ had  _to work for it._

_I was supposed to be raised as a wizard._

But instead he'd ended up a complete freak. The wizard-born wizard who was raised by Muggles. An idiot, like the dim-witted Weasley cousin he’d been disguised as at Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

 _Barry._  

_No, Barney._

He was taken with a sudden fear that Barney Weasley had been lurking somewhere in that dream of his. Unseen, unsensed, unknown, but there. He shook his head. There had been no Barney in his dream. Nightmare. 

_I deserve to be a wizard more than Malfoy does._

_Look what I’ve done, compared to him._

He had almost caught up when Malfoy climbed over the sty and landed in the narrow lane behind it. He crossed the lane and stood in front of the towering hawthorn hedge which ran along the lane as far as the eye could see on either side. Malfoy seemed to be whispering into the hedge. 

_Uh….Malfoy?_

And then the hedge opened. Malfoy stepped inside and disappeared. 

“Flipping hell!” he exclaimed in shock.

Malfoy’s arm appeared from the hedge, palm outstretched, and beckoned him inside. It was the arm without the Dark Mark. He heard Malfoy’s laugh, light-hearted and carefree, float through with it. 

_What in the world…?_

He went closer. A gap had opened in the dense foliage. Malfoy stood in it, grinning at him like a Cheshire cat. 

“Get in here,” Malfoy said, “before any more mediwizards or Lightbunnies show up and drag you away.”

_What is he talking about?_

He peered into the gap. “What is this, Malfoy?”

Malfoy fixed silver eyes on him. “This is the Malfoy estate, Potter.” 

_Oh…_

Then Malfoy gave a short bow and said, somewhat solemnly, “I bid you welcome, Harry Potter.”

_Holy…shit…_

No wonder Malfoy had been grinning like the Kneazle that got the cream. Malfoy was about to have Harry Potter, captured and helpless, without a wand, on his family’s estate. 

_Little does Malfoy know…_

_…this is exactly what I want._

He stepped through the gap in the hawthorn hedge to join Malfoy.


	24. All Down To You, Kiddo

**Draco**

To his immense surprise, Potter stepped through the hawthorn hedge without a word and not more than a moment's hesitation.

_I can't believe it._

The hedge closed behind Potter, the dense foliage sealing back together as if it had never moved.

_Oh Hecate._

He felt an immense wave of relief wash over him. The moment the hawthorn had opened for him he'd started to feel better, and the reality of getting home and—unbelievably—inviting Potter onto his estate had been so incredible that he'd been unable to suppress his laughter.

_Oh, Hecate, thank you._

_Thank you._

The relief was so strong he felt he was going to burst into tears, or laugh until he was sick. He glanced at Potter and felt an overwhelming desire to throw his arms around him.

_I could hug the shit out of you, Potter._

Potter's eyes caught the late golden sunlight and glowed.

His heart skipped a beat.

_Hey, beautiful._

Potter's forehead creased in a frown.

He laughed. "Potter, relax. They can't find us any more. They can't get through the wards without the permission of one of the family. This way," he said, and started leading Potter across the grass. He noticed Potter was walking slowly, trying to lag behind.

_He doesn't want to walk with me._

He felt hurt by that.

_And I can admit it._

In the past he would never have admitted Potter could hurt him.

_Physically or emotionally…_

He took a deep breath of the clean, fresh air of the Malfoy estate.

_Just ignore it._

_The point is, we're safe now._

He felt like he'd been walking for hours.

_Hecate, I'm sick of walking._

He felt like he'd been awake for days. Like he'd been fighting for weeks.

The house came into view as he crested the hill, and he breathed another sigh of relief.

_Home._

His eyes drank it in.

_Finally, home._

_Hecate, it's good to be home._

"Snithwithington!" He called.

Potter looked at him, alarmed. "What did you say?" He said.

The House Elf appeared on the grass in front of him. "Yes, Master Draco?"

"Are they gone?"

The Elf nodded solemnly.

"Really? Are they really gone?" He said.

"Yes, Master. My lady banished them and my lord reinstated the wards. We elves have been cleaning the house from top to bottom."

_By the seven sisters…_

_…thank you…_

He reached down and squeezed the Elf's shoulder tightly. "They'll never come back, alright, Snithy? Never."

"Yes, Master Draco," Snithy, tears beginning to fall down his cheeks.

The Elf could sense his emotions and was mirroring them. Only the knowledge that Potter was standing right behind him prevented him from breaking down himself.

He stood up and, not looking at Potter, said, "Thank you Snithy. You can go back to the house now."

Snithwithington vanished.

He glanced at Potter, who wasn't meeting his eyes. He straightened up.

_I'm not embarrassed._

He remembered the day his mother had told him what was going to happen.

_Tom Riddle is taking up residence in this house._

_He wishes to make this his base of operations_.

He'd screamed until he was hoarse, but it had changed nothing.

_Sacrifice is noble, Draco._

He would never forget the gut-churning fear of that first night, or the sick, polluted feeling he got when he saw them in his house. "The Servants are gone," he said to Potter, and started walking again.

"What?" Potter said, following behind.

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "The Reptile's servants. Tom Riddle. You-Know-Who. They're gone. Gone!"

The smile threatened to overwhelm his face then, and again he felt that giddy feeling rising within him, like spiralling air currents competing to reach the top of the sky.

Potter frowned. "You told me you would lead me to Death Eaters."

 _Oh, Hecate_.

_If there was ever a one-track mind…_

He suppressed the desire to roll his eyes. "I will, Potter. But I told you. I don't know where they are. I need to find out first."

He glanced at Potter, who now had a stony expression on his face.

"What, did you think the Death Eaters were  _here_?" He asked Potter.

Potter shrugged and said nothing.

He frowned at Potter. "You don't even have a wand. Did you really think I was leading you to into a stately home full of bloodthirsty Death Eaters without so much as a wand?"

Potter didn't say anything.

"Potter, that is—are you serious? I swore an oath to protect your life!" He felt outraged.

Potter just glanced at him with the same dark expression.

_Does he believe anything I say?_

The penny dropped, then.

_Potter doesn't believe anything I say._

He felt incredibly sad.

_He hates me._

He took a deep breath and tried to think what Sir would say, what Sir would do.

"I don't know about you, Potter," he began, "but I'm knackered. Let's go inside, get a good meal, a good night's sleep and then go and find the Death Eaters. What do you say?"

Potter gave him another stony-faced glare but eventually muttered, "Alright."

They were almost at the house by this point.

_It's so unfair._

He remembered what Sir had told him, when Sir had found out the truth that awful day in third year.

_I know it seems like Harry will always hate you, Draco._

_But it doesn't have to be that way._

_Your relationship can change._

Sir had stayed with him in the hospital until he'd fallen asleep. He'd sat by his bedside, as solid and steady as a rock.

_That power lies within you._

_It's all down to you, kiddo._

He stared at the doorjamb while he waited for Potter to catch up.

_It was all very well for Sir._

_People like Sir. Everyone likes Sir._

He could feel his teeth grinding.

_Sir is…_

Sir was someone people trusted. Everything about him made you feel you could trust him with your life. He was gentle and he spoke quietly and courteously to everyone he met.

_Your tutor is the best man I know, Draco._

His father often spoke about Sir when Sir had to be away working or on a mission.

_He seems so vulnerable, ready to break at any moment. But really he's strong._

His father would be drinking brandy in the library, in front of the fire, and smoking his pipe.

_He's so strong. Stronger than you or I._

His father could talk about Sir for hours.

Everyone he knew liked and admired Sir. Everyone.

Especially the Light.

_They loved Sir._

Sir had tried to comfort him in the hospital wing that night, but really he was only making it worse.

_Potter loved Sir._

He rang the doorbell. While he waited, he turned and watched Potter trudging toward the house.

_How can I compete with that?_


	25. False Sense Of Security

**Harry**

"What, did you think the Death Eaters were  _here_?" Malfoy was staring at him.

_Yeah._

Malfoy frowned. "You don't even have a wand. Did you really think I was leading you to into a stately home full of bloodthirsty Death Eaters without so much as a wand?"

_Erm… yeah._

_Duh._

"Potter, that is—are you serious? I swore an oath to protect your life!" Malfoy cried.

_Just give it a rest with the life debt, Malfoy._

"I don't know about you, Potter," he began, "but I'm knackered. Let's go inside, get a good meal, a good night's sleep and then go and find the Death Eaters. What do you say?"

_What have you been smoking?_

He gave Malfoy the biggest scowl he could muster and muttered, "Alright."

Malfoy walked off toward the enormous white mansion looming across a wide, green sloping lawn.

_There's no need to lull me into a false sense of security, Malfoy._

_I'm not scared to face them._

He had duelled Riddle so many times, by this point he could basically duel in his sleep.

 _I died and came back to life, and_ still _defeated Riddle in single combat._

_A few middle-aged men with tattoos don't scare me._

Malfoy reached the house. They had approached it from the side, rather than the grand front he had seen through swollen eyes when he'd been brought here by the Snatchers a few weeks ago. Malfoy stood in front of a small door set into the wall, watching him, waiting.

_They'll never come back, alright Snithy? Never._

He frowned, remembering how Malfoy had comforted the tearful House Elf.

_The Reptile's servants. Tom Riddle. You-Know-Who._

_They're gone. Gone!_

Maybe Malfoy really  _didn't_  know where the other Death Eaters were.

After all, he'd seen for himself that Draco and Lucius had not been Riddle's favourite followers. Perhaps the Malfoys wouldn't be the first choice as confidants for Death Eaters trying to hide out from justice.

_I don't understand it…_

No matter what Malfoy said about how important a life debt was, he couldn't believe that was the real reason Malfoy had turned himself in to the Order after the battle.

_What was it Hagrid said…_

Long ago, Hagrid had told him about Lucius Malfoy's involvement in the first war with Voldemort.

_Some of 'em came out of sorta… trances._

_Said they were bewitched._

_I don't believe a word of it._

If Lucius Malfoy had claimed he'd been under the Imperius Curse, well…

_Like father, like son._

_Malfoy is a coward, remember that._

When he'd found Malfoy tied up in the boys' shower room, he had told him:

_You wouldn't be here if your side had won. You've come to make friends with the stronger side, because you think we can protect you._

And that was exactly what Malfoy had said he wanted to do. He'd said he wanted to give information about the Death Eaters in exchange for protection.

_Maybe Malfoy is serious when he says he's not a Death Eater any more …_

Malfoy would probably be able to avoid spending time in Azkaban by testifying before the Wizengamot. If Malfoy was exonerated, presumably he would find it easier to get on in life after Hogwarts.

_Maybe that's what this whole life debt thing is about…_

Did Malfoy think that if he could get Harry Potter on his side, it would help his case before the Wizengamot? He imagined Malfoy sitting there in that underground courtroom, immaculately dressed, gesturing to him and saying,

_I'm a changed man. Really. My friend, Harry Potter, will testify to that…_

The thought made him laugh — and feel vaguely nauseous.

_Did you really think I was leading you to into a stately home full of bloodthirsty Death Eaters without so much as a wand?_

_I swore an oath to protect your life!_

It was absurd. He'd never met a less chivalrous person than Malfoy.

_The cunning of Slytherin._

He had almost reached the house. Malfoy was still standing there waiting for him.

_I've got your number, Malfoy._

_I can see through you, as clear as crystal._

_Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. That's what Auntie used to say…_

_What?_

He shook his head to clear it of the random thought. He took a deep breath.

_Do what you like, Malfoy._

_You won't fool me._


	26. Snufling

**Draco**

_I know it seems like Harry will always hate you, Draco._

No, it didn't just seem that way. Potter hated him, had always hated him and would always hate him, forever.

_But it doesn't have to be that way. Your relationship can change. That power lies within you. It's all down to you, kiddo._

_Just tell Harry the truth, Draco._

_Tell him the truth and you'll see. You'll see what a difference it makes._

_Well, I've been telling him, Sir._

_It's done fuck all._

_He doesn't believe a word I say._

Sir always acted like it was so easy to get Potter to like you and trust you. It had taken Sir a matter of seconds to gain Potter's undying admiration.

_Fucking Potter._

Sir always spoke so highly of Potter. Poor Potter. So mistreated. So exploited. And then, inevitably, his father would chime in while his mother nodded gravely. 

_Poor little Harry. We must have him back. He needs us. He has no-one else._

_Perfect fucking Potter._

Harry Potter could do no wrong.

Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, could do no right…

_Since the day I met him, Potter has treated me like somehing he found on the bottom of his shoe._

But no matter how much he tried to explain that to Sir, it made no difference. Sir just kept encouraging him in that way of his. Gentle and quiet on the surface, solid steel underneath.

_That power lies within you. It's all down to you, kiddo._

Sometimes he was glad that Sir knew his secret, and sometimes he wasn't. He didn't know why Sir had done it. He knew that Sir would never have told his parents without informing him first, but still, sometimes late at night he would imagine Sir telling them.

_Narcissa, Lucius. I have something to tell you._

_Draco has been lying to you about his relationship with Harry Potter._

_They… are not best friends._

And now Sir had died. Sir had died with so many of his secrets, big and little.

_Sir is the only one who knows I tell my parents Harry Potter is my best friend._

_Sir is the only one who knows I'm in love with Harry Potter, even though I never told Sir that one._

Potter was almost at the door. The expression on Potter's face was inscrutable. He couldn't read it at all.

_Did Sir die with any of Potter's?_

Potter climbed the short flight of stairs which led to the door and came to a halt, his hands in his pockets.

_Just tell Harry the truth, Draco._

_Fine._

_Okay, Sir? I'm going to tell Potter everything._

_Everything._

_I might even tell him about_ you _._

"Ready, Potter?" He said, just to break the awkward silence. It was weird inviting Potter into the house. It made everything feel sort of alien, like he had never seen it before even though he had lived there all his life.

He stepped inside.

_Ahh…_

He could sense the difference immediately. The darkness and evil which had crept into the house during the Reptile's occupation had been dispelled. The purifying charms the House Elves emitted as they cleaned made everything feel light, fresh and good. The whole atmosphere was uplifting. He immediately began to feel better.

 _Home_.

Snithwithington appeared and bowed deeply. "Welcome home, Master Draco."

"Thank you, Snithy," he said. "Get me a cup of tea, would you?" He turned to Potter, "Do you want a drink, Potter?"

Potter gave him an odd, spooked look. "Erm—" He muttered. "Just some water, then."

"Yes, Master Draco. Welcome, Mister Potter," Snithwithington replied, vanishing silently and reappearing almost instantly bearing a silver tray with his tea and a silver goblet of water.

"Thank you, Snithy," he said, taking his tea.

Potter, however, looked surprised and taken aback. He gave Snithwithington an odd look as he took the silver goblet, which he raised gingerly to his face.

_Is he sniffing it?_

"It's not poisoned, Potter," he said, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly.

Potter didn't reply, started drinking. He was clearly thirsty, downing the water quickly and wiping his mouth. "He looks like Dobby," Potter said.

"I'm sorry?" He said.

"Your House Elf who I freed," Potter continued, "after you forced him to punish himself."

_Oh Hecate…_

_He better not say anything like that in front of Dad…_

"Dobby used to punish himself all on his own," he said, blowing on his tea to cool it. "Dobby was… a very weird elf."

Potter just glared at him.

_Oh Hecate._

"Anyway, He doesn't look that much like Dobby," he said finally. "They were related, but only distantly. Separate bloodlines."

Potter made a noise of some sort in his throat. "Do you mount their heads on the walls when they die, too?"

Now it was his turn to scoff. "Please. My dad would have Kneazles."

"Why not, then?" Potter asked. "That's what the Blacks used to—"

At that moment Snufling appeared, raced toward him and threw her arms around his legs.

"Shut up about that now," he muttered to Potter, reaching down to pet Snufling.

"Master Draco is home!" She piped, squeezing his calves as hard as she could, which was actually quite hard. House Elves were much stronger than they looked.

"Snufling—not so tight—"

She leapt backward. "Snufling is sorry, Master Draco!"

"That's alright, Snufling."

"The Bad Ones are gone, Master Draco!"

"I know, Snufling."

"Snufling is so happy, Master Draco!"

"I am too, Snufling."

He patted her soft, downy head and she looked up at him with shining eyes, panting a little. Then she turned her head, her gaze fell upon Potter and she gaped in amazement. The other Elves could keep a poker face around Potter, but not Snufling.

_Not our Snufling._

"Mister…" Snufling let go of his legs and turned around to stare at Potter. "Harry… Potter…!"

"Hello there," Potter said to her, with a certain weariness in his tone, as if House Elves threw themselves at his feet all day long.

"Master Draco's friend!" Snufling gasped, going up to Potter shyly and patting his trainers with her small hands. "Master Draco's wonderful friend!"

 _Fuck_.

"Er—" Potter said.

"Mister Potter," said Snufling, craning her head back to look up at him, "does Mister Potter know Dobby?"

Potter actually looked surprised. "I—" he stuttered, and then fell silent.

"Dobby!" She turned around and looked at him excitedly, scampering back over to him and wrapping herself around his legs like a monkey.

"Yes," he said, stroking Snufling's ears and looking at Potter, "how is Dobby? I haven't seen him around at Hogwarts recently."

Potter looked back at him, a wild, bright-eyed look, then looked away. Potter scratched his ear and stared at the floor a bit, and said nothing.

"Dobby went back to his family," Snufling told his trouser leg. "Dobby loved Mister Harry Potter so. He loved his master." She rubbed her snout against his knee.

_Silly Elf._

"Yes, he did, Snufling," he said.

"Dobby's dead." Potter said it suddenly, loudly.

_Oh no he didn't._

"He's dead, alright?" Potter repeated, louder, angrier.

_Shut the fuck up._

Snufling's grip on his legs doubled and he looked down into her wide, fearful eyes. Suppressing the urge to curse Potter into next week, he put his tea cup down on a side table, then crouched down and picked her up.

_Forget it._

It came naturally. He didn't even need to concentrate. The magic flowed from his body into Snufling's.

_Dobby is healthy and well. He lives at Hogwarts with his master, Harry Potter._

_Dobby is happy because he is reunited with his family after being separated from them for so long._

_Dobby is fine._

Snufling blinked and looked at him. "Dobby is happy at Hogwarts, Master Draco."

_Oh thank Hecate._

"That's right, Snufling."

_It must be so easy for Muggles, having pets that don't understand a word they say._

"Snufling, you can go back now," he told her.

She disappeared without another word.

He turned on Potter. "What in Hecate's name was that?"

Potter blinked at him.

"Well," he said, his anger rising rapidly, "couldn't you tell that you should keep your mouth shut about something like that in front of her?"

"It was the truth. Dobby is dead," Potter spat, the colour rushing to his cheeks. "Are you happy?"

"No!" He exclaimed. "Of course I'm not happy."

"Oh really?" Potter sneered, "because from the way you treated him, that's not what I would have guessed."

"How did we treat him, Potter? Enlighten me," he said, not keeping the sarcasm from his tone.

"He said you were horrible to him," Potter said. "You would tell him to punish himself when he did something wrong."

"I don't know if you picked up on this, Potter, but Dobby could be quite manipulative when he wanted to achieve something."

"Dobby.  _Manipulative_ ," Potter opened his eyes wide and spoke slowly. "This is  _Dobby the House Elf_  we're talking about?"

"Dobby never tried to manipulate you into doing something he wanted you to do?"

Potter stared back at him defiantly for a few moments, but as his words sunk in Potter coloured and looked away.

"Or maybe I should say, something he  _didn't_  want you to do?" He went on.

_Sir, you told me to tell the truth._

_Behold Draco Malfoy, Sayer of Truths._

Potter looked at him with an expression of growing outrage comically evident on his face. "What?"

He tried very, very hard not to laugh.

And failed.

"What—" Potter said, and a slyness crept into his voice. "What did Dobby do to me?"

"He kept back your letters so you would think your friends didn't like you any more and you wouldn't go back to school. He did magic in your aunt and uncle's house to get you expelled from Hogwarts."

Potter goggled at him.

"He was convinced he was the only one who could keep you safe. He worried about you obsessively, you know that. He stopped eating. Stopped sleeping…" He sighed. "He just wasn't happy here any more. It wasn't his home any more…"

"So—so, what," Potter said, the frown returning to his face, deeper this time. "You were using him to try to get me expelled from Hogwarts?"

After a moment he asked quietly, "How did Dobby die?"

Potter went silent. He could see his jaw working and his arms were tightly crossed. Eventually he ground out, "It was your fucking insane aunt. He died--saving my life."

_Oh, Dobby._

_Oh, Aunt Bella..._

"He just wanted to be free," Potter said suddenly. "Dobby was the only House Elf who wanted to be free."

"Dobby was a true oddball," he agreed. "But really, Potter, to Dobby the definition of 'being free' was being able to serve  _you_."

Potter was staring at the floor.

_I'm going to have to make sure Father doesn't find out about this either._

_Not just yet._

"House Elves are the most loyal beings known to wizardkind," he said softly, repeating Father's words. "They would lay down their lives for those they serve."

Potter didn't say anything. Potter had turned around to face the door and he was just standing stock still, his arms still tightly crossed.

"Father was right about that one," he said.

Potter turned around and looked at him. The expression on his face was like he'd seen a ghost. "Why," Potter whispered, his eyes luminous in the golden light from the windows. "Why was he so obsessed with me?"

There was a spot within his ribcage, a spot so exquisitely, so excruciatingly tender that it almost stopped his heart.

"Because," he heard himself say, "that Elf was the last of the Potter Elves. And all he wanted was to go home. To go home to his family. To go home to you."


	27. Dobby Loved Mister Harry Potter

**Harry**

 

The words of Malfoy’s little House Elf ran through his head.

 

_Dobby loved Mister Harry Potter so. He loved his family._

 

He turned around slowly to face Malfoy. An intense pain was gripping his heart. “Why,” he felt as if he were going to start crying again. “Why was he so obsessed with me?”

 

_Please don’t cry._

 

_Don’t cry in front of Malfoy._

 

“Because,” he heard Mafoy say, and his voice seemed to come from far away, seemed muffled, seemed strange, “that Elf was the last of the Potter Elves. And all he wanted was to go home. To go home to his family. To go home to you.”

 

_Wait… what?_

 

_Fool me once, shame on you._

 

“Don’t talk rubbish,” he said. “Only the wealthiest, oldest, most pureblood wizarding families keep House Elves.”

 

_Fool me twice, shame on me._

 

Malfoy just cocked an eyebrow and stared at him.

 

_You won’t fool me._

 

“Well?” He said, starting to feel angry now. He clung to the anger, letting it burn away his tears and his grief over Dobby. “How can you just make up these _lies_?”

 

_I’m not an idiot, no matter what you think._

 

Malfoy’s eyebrows flew up. “How can you doubt it? Dobby was obviously _your_ Elf, wasn’t he?”

 

“Dobby was a _free Elf!_ ” He said fiercely. “Besides, he just liked me because I was the ‘Boy Who Lived’.”

 

“Nonsense. He was _your_ Elf. House Elves don’t go about attaching themselves to randoms, Potter. They serve members of their family, and that’s it. He was never really happy here, but we couldn’t exactly send him to you at the Muggles’, could we?”

 

_What is he talking about?_

 

“Dobby wasn’t normal, though,” he argued, grasping the thought and clutching it like a drowning man. “By House Elf standards he was loopy. Everyone thought he was weird, especially other Elves.”

 

“Dad thinks…” Malfoy said carefully, looking at the floor. “Dad thinks that’s because of being away from his family for so long. House Elves don’t do well away from their family,” Malfoy said quietly.

 

He felt as if the world was tilting under his feet, tipping him over slowly, slowly, slowly. Soon he would be walking on the ceiling and not even noticing it.

 

_No it’s not._

 

_Don’t listen to him._

 

_This is all just lies._

 

“Right,” he said to Malfoy with finality. “You’ve just proved once and for all my point about those mediwizards back there being after you.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Malfoy frowned. “How did I do that?”

 

“Because,” he said very slowly, “everything you just said is fucking insane.”

 

“Potter, I’m just trying to explain why Dobby liked you so much,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes and drinking tea like he was totally sane.

 

He narrowed his eyes and peered at Malfoy. 

 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows disdainfully in response.

 

“You know,” he said. “I always had the impression,” he continued, “that you hated animals.”

 

“ _I_ hate animals?” Malfoy’s eyes opened wide in outrage.

 

“Yeah,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “You do.”

 

Malfoy put his tea cup down before taking a few steps closer to him. “And where did you get _that_ idea, Potter?” He asked, his voice cold with anger.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied casually. “Maybe because of _Buckbeak_?”

 

Malfoy frowned. “What?”

 

_You’ll never fool me._

 

 _I’ve got your number, you lying piece of_ shit _._

 

“Oh _nothing_ ,” he continued, letting the sarcasm drip from his words. “Just the defenseless _hippogryff_ that your _father_ —” he was shouting now, right in Malfoy’s face, “ _tried to have executed_!”

 

Malfoy had gone white, and he seemed to be trembling. He was staring at the floor. “Dad _loves_ animals,” he said in a small voice. “More than almost anything else.”

 

_Right._

 

_Pull the other one._

 

“Oh, seriously, Malfoy,” he said, “how _thick_ do you think I am? The Potters owned House Elves, Dobby was the last one and by the way, Lucius Malfoy is a sucker for fluffy kittens and puppies.”

 

“It’s true!” Malfoy said, his voice rising frantically. “He’s an Elf breeder. He bred all our House Elves. He tried to keep the Potter line going but they started to go strange after a while—”

 

“So you stole my family’s House Elves and then, what, _slowly killed them all_?”

 

He wasn’t sure whether to start laughing hysterically or just punch Malfoy in the mouth.

 

“We didn’t _steal_ them…” Malfoy said quietly.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure my parents _left_ him to you in their wills,” he retorted. “You obviously stole him somehow, you _dicks_.”

 

“Potter, listen,” Malfoy said. “You don’t _know_ what happened, alright?”

 

“Yes I do,” he shot back. “Shut your gob.”

 

“No, I’m _serious_ , Potter. You don’t know everything about the wizarding world,” Malfoy began. “There are a lot of things that—”

 

What _did he just say to me?_

 

“Shut your _fucking_ mouth!” He was on the verge of punching Malfoy on the nose.

 

_I’m going to kill him._

 

“There’s a lot of things no-one ever told you!” Malfoy shouted. 

 

_Barney Weasley._

 

_The dumb Squib._

 

_I’m not a Muggle!_

 

“You think you’re so fucking superior,” he said to Malfoy, almost nose to nose with him now. “But you’re just a liar and a coward.”

 

Malfoy stared at him, wide-eyed, and backed away. “You don’t know anything about me,” he said quietly.

 

“Yes I do,” he replied. “You don’t want to accept the blame for Dobby’s death. But you supported Tom Riddle.”

 

Malfoy was shaking his head. 

 

“You supported him, Malfoy,” he said. “I don’t care if you secretly didn’t _want_ to be a Death Eater for whatever reason. The point is, even if you were the most useless Death Eater of all time, you did _nothing_ to stop him. You let him _live_ in your _house_ , for Merlin’s sake.”

 

Malfoy stared back at him, his eyes very large in his face.

 

“So face it. Whether you like it or not, you share the blame for the people he maimed and killed.”

 

Malfoy suddenly put his hands over his face, turned and walked away as quickly as he could away down the long corridor which led off the vestibule.

 

He watched him go.

 

_Cry, Malfoy._

 

_Cry._

 

_But it won’t bring them back._

 

_And it won’t absolve you from what you did._

 

“Mister Potter,” said a quiet, calming voice from around his knees. “Snithwithington will show Mister Potter to Mister Potter’s room now.”

 

He felt a light touch on his leg and then he was somewhere else. A bedroom. The Elf from earlier was turning down the bed and guiding him toward it, making him sit down and taking off his shoes.

 

The moment he sat down, a wave of exhaustion broke over him all of a sudden.  

 

_I’ll just lie down for a minute._

 

He curled up in clean, fragrant-smelling sheets and laid his face on the cool pillow.

 

_Dobby loved Mister Harry Potter so._

 

His mind filled with the image of that foul knife embedded in Dobby’s small body. 

 

_He loved his family._

 

He cringed when he thought of cold steel invading a living being, causing terrible pain. When he’d held dead Dobby, the Elf’s slight limbs covered in soft furry down, his heavy, oversized head lolling helplessly, he’d felt a terrible desire to protect this little creature, to shield him from harm and from wrong.

 

_I was too late for that._

 

Dobby would have been his shadow if he’d asked him to. Dobby would have been by his side day and night, content to sleep at the foot of his bed just to be near him.

 

_But I didn’t want him._

 

He’d thought Dobby silly at best, psychotic at worst and annoying as a general rule.

 

_I didn’t like him._

 

_I wasn’t that nice to him._

 

_I usually just shooed him away, dismissed him._

 

And still he felt in his arms Dobby’s tiny body, as warm as if he lived still, with that knife sticking out of him. That cruel knife.

 

_Dobby loved Mister Harry Potter so. He loved his family._

 

He hadn’t seen Dobby much in the last couple of years. He’d almost forgotten about him, when Dobby had turned up in Malfoy Manor.

 

Maybe Dobby had picked up on the fact that he didn’t want him around.

 

That he found Dobby’s fawning presence embarrassing.

 

_Dobby loved Mister Harry Potter so. He loved his family._

 

Dobby had died for him.

 

Dobby had died, and nothing could bring him back.

 

Dobby had died, maybe thinking that Harry Potter hated him, and now he would never be able to set that right.

 

He was crying again. 

 

Small hands were patting his head gently. “Mister Potter, Mister Potter,” a small voice was saying in a sing-song. It was Malfoy’s Elf, the one he treated like a pet. “Master Draco’s friend, Mister Potter,” it whispered. He reached out and stroked its soft, downy head. It was almost like petting a cat. It was a very small Elf, perhaps half the size Dobby had been.

 

_Snufling._

 

_That’s a cute name._

 

Snufling curled up on his shoulder, warm and solid. He stroked her ears. If she had been a cat, she surely would have been purring.

 

_Fool me once, shame on you._

 

_Fool me twice, shame on me._

 

_You won’t fool me._


	28. Change Of Plans

**Draco**

The light beyond the wooden-shuttered windows was failing. The library was lit with golden light. The walls of books and the smell of leather and dust were soothingly familiar. 

_It’s not going well, Sir._

Blue smoke curled into the air, formed a ladder of curlicues, then broke up. 

_It’s not going well at all._

He took another drag, carefully, and drew the smoke into his lungs. He exhaled. 

_I had another fight with Potter._

_Over House Elves._

_Oh, and… remember I promised to tell him the truth?_

_I tried._

_I tried and I think he was literally about to kill me._

He tapped the stem of the pipe against his bottom teeth, the way his father always did when he was smoking. Gradually he started to feel better. 

_Please help me, Sir._

_Tell me how to get Potter to like me._

_To believe me._

The books on the shelves around him swam a little. 

_It’s been a weird fucking day._

_Me and Potter, breaking out of a locked room. Escaping a horde of baddies._

_Who’d have thought it?_

_Sort of like the world’s been turned inside out._

_Potter, if you like, you can turn_ me _inside out._  

He smiled wickedly to himself. 

_You didn’t hear that._

He took another careful drag on the pipe and felt his lungs fill with the smoke, so hot it just burned a little. He exhaled carefully, trying not to snag the smoke on his throat and start coughing. He was feeling better and better. His cares and worries were falling away and suddenly it all seemed so ridiculous, so odd and just funny. 

_I never thought I’d get a second broomstick ride with Potter, that’s for sure._

_It was not as… sexy…_

_… as I had… imagined…_

In fact on both occasions it had been rather uncomfortable and not a little humiliating.

_So much for that fantasy…_

He heard voices. 

_Fuck…_

Unmistakeable voices. 

 _It’s mum and dad._  

He tapped the bowl of the pipe out and stamped out the embers with his shoe, then vanished the ashes with his wand.

_What in Hecate’s name are they doing here?_

“Snithy!” 

But the Elf didn’t appear. He must already be in the hallway, helping his parents. 

“Snopes,” he whispered, and the Elf appeared. “Where is Potter?”

“Asleep,” Snopes replied impassively, “in one of the guest rooms, Master Draco.”

He cast a charm to clean the lingering smoke from the air and himself. “Make sure he doesn’t come out. If he tries to leave, stop him. Alright?”

Snopes bowed and vanished silently.

He hurried out the door and caught sight of them at the end of the corridor, in the vestibule. 

_If Potter wakes up…_

_…and realises mum and dad are here…_  

Potter didn’t even have a wand. But from what he knew of Potter, that wouldn’t stop him from going ballistic. 

_Hecate..._

An image formed in his mind of Potter tackling his father to the ground. 

_I’m fucked._

_I’m totally fucked._

But rather than panicking, he found that instead he was only slightly alarmed. The smoke made it impossible to feel overly concerned about anything. Like a man watching a train crash, he resigned himself to the debacle which was about to occur.

_Mum said they weren’t coming back._

_She said they were going to Croatia—_

But he felt so grateful to see them standing there, flesh and blood and alive, that he couldn’t help running down the corridor and hugging his father. 

_Thank Hecate you’re alive, Daddy_

His father clutched him back, tightly, with one arm. 

“Careful, Draco,” Dad said, releasing him a little and allowing Snithwithington to remove his cloak.

That was when he noticed his father had something strapped to his body in a sling, and he was holding it steady with one hand. 

 _Oh my Hecate…_  

He stared at his father. “Is it…”

Dad pulled the sling back to reveal a plump porcelain cheek and a tiny hand resting against it. The baby shifted, turning its head deeper into his father’s chest. It had spiky brown hair like a hedgehog. His father held the baby closer.  “Finally,” he whispered. “Finally, he’s home.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked back at his mother. She leaned closer to him and said quietly, “Draco, meet Lynx John Black.”

_Oh my Hecate…_

He leaned forward and stroked the baby’s fingers. They were incredibly small and silky-smooth to the touch. 

_Look at that._

Father wrapped his arm around him and hugged him tightly to his baby-free side. He hugged his father back as tightly as he could. 

“Now I have two boys,” his father whispered fiercely, planting a kiss on his forehead. 

“You didn’t have any trouble getting him?” He asked, looking at his mother. 

Mum stared at the baby, strapped to Dad’s chest. “Not really.”

“Snithy!” His father exclaimed. “Thank Salazar. Fetch me a glass of cognac. A big one. And fill my pipe.”

“My lord,” Snithy bowed.

“My lady?” Snithwithington turned to mother. 

“Er—tea for me, Snithwithington. In my study,” Mum replied, lowering the hood on her cloak. “And run a bath for me. Hecate wept, I need one.”

“Where is Snufling?” Dad said, calling her. “Where is my Snufling?”

Snufling appeared instantly and climbed up onto his shoulder, and rubbed her head against his like a cat while he showed her the baby. 

“Draco,” Mum said to him quietly, and gestured to him to accompany her. He walked with her down the hallway toward the staircase. 

He followed her onto the landing and down the long hallway which led to her chambers. The lamps flared as they approached, filling the hallway with warm golden light.

She opened the door to her study and he followed her inside. The lights went up as she entered, revealing her huge ebony desk and walls lined with cabinets filled with her books and papers. Opposite the desk were two chairs. The other half of the room held a sofa suite, rarely used, and a large oval table with four chairs, in constant use.

She sat down at her desk and he took a seat on the other side. The Elves had brought her tea, which sat on a tray with a china cup and saucer. She picked up the teapot and poured, filling a bone china cup which she lifted to her lips, drinking deeply before putting the cup down. 

He sat down in a chair facing her. The warm, fuzzy feeling he’d gotten from smoking the pipe was beginning to fade and he was starting to feel nervous. He could feel his heart beating quickly in his chest. 

_Just relax._

_You can do this._

“Your father and I had a change of plans,” she said brusquely. “I will update you in a moment. But first, tell me what you’re doing here.”

 _Shit_. 

She fixed him with her dark eyes, which always seemed to see straight through him.

_What are we doing here?_

_Stupid Potter and his stupid Death Eater obsession._

“Well,” he said. “I guess Potter and I had a change of plans as well. Can I have a cup of tea?” He asked. “We just got here. I’m parched.” Anything to buy time while his mind whirred, trying to figure out how to frame the story.  

_The best lie is the one closest to the truth._

Sir had taught him that. 

He took a sip of tea. His mind felt clearer now. He cleared his throat. “Potter needs some time away from the Light. That’s why I brought him here.”

His mother raised her eyebrows in surprise. “What happened?”

He sighed and spread his hands. “After you left this morning, everything started to go wrong. Nothing went the way we planned.”

She closed her eyes. “John.”

_Sir._

_Sir, why did you allow me to continue in this lie?_

_This lie which has taken over my life?_

_Why did you lie for me?_

He forced the thoughts down. He couldn’t allow emotions to interfere with his explanation. He might make a mistake and give himself away.

“Yes,” he said. “The fact that Sir wasn’t there didn’t help. I was totally on my own.” 

She reached her hand across the table and squeezed his hand. “Brave boy.”

He felt himself grimacing. 

_As if._

_I’m a lying coward._

_And Sir_ knew _it._

“Sir not being there wasn’t the biggest problem, though,” he continued. “Actually, the biggest problem was Potter.” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “First off, Sir was right. Potter didn’t know about Ginevra Weasley and Neville Longbottom. Potter just found out this morning. Once he found out it led to a flaming row with the two of them, plus Granger and Ronald Weasley.” 

“Hecate wept,” his mother said, staring at him in shock. 

“There’s more,” he said. “When Potter found out that servants had escaped, he became obsessed with tracking them down. He can’t bear the idea of them escaping Ministry justice. You know how he is.”

She sighed. “What can I say? In his way, he’s right. The Ministry is in tatters. The chain of command has broken down completely. The Auror force was decimated.” 

_She’s going with it._

_She’s absolutely going with it._

“You mean… the Aurors are not pursuing servants?”

“Not as far as I know. Alecto Carrow hadn’t heard of anyone being arrested. She and her brother simply slipped out of the castle after Riddle fell. They were making for the coast. I doubt any of the servants are still in England.” 

He debated telling mum about the Kingsley Shacklebolt incident, then decided not to. He couldn’t think of a way to make it plausible in the context of Potter being his friend. 

“Security is a major issue anyway,” his mother continued. “The Ministry is in chaos, as I said, and Azkaban Prison is no longer secure. The guards fled months ago.”

Perhaps Shacklebolt had intended that Portkey not to arrest him, but to get him off his hands. With no prison and no-one to report to at the Ministry, maybe Shacklebolt hadn’t wanted to arrest him. Giving him a Portkey to a free Apparition space was the quickest way to get rid of a Death Eater he didn’t want to deal with. 

“You need to make Harry understand that the servants are irrelevant,” she continued. “Prosecuting and imprisoning Death Eaters is one of the Ministry’s favourite PR strategies. As a policy, there’s no evidence it’s effective in reducing radicalisation or as a method of rehabilitation.”

She was off on one of her diatribes now. She had bought his story and he could just sit back and let her do the talking. 

_She certainly loves the sound of her own voice._

“In fact, the recidivism rate for Death Eaters, based on my intelligence, is close to one hundred percent.”

He couldn’t help but think back on all the time he’d spent in this room, sitting across this desk from her or at the conference table with her, father and Sir. 

_My whole life has been dedicated to you._

_You took my life and used it for your own ends._

_And you took Sir’s, too._

“You saw yourself that Azkaban did nothing to help your Aunt Bella rebuild a normal wizarding life.”

He was glad he didn’t have to talk just now, because that old sense of resentment was slowly starting to fill his body. Bitter resentment, tinged with shame. 

_You ruined all our lives._

“Furthermore, momentum for the Death Eater movement was clearly provided by Riddle’s leadership. In the years before his resurrection there was no evidence of continued organised activities by any Death Eaters, no attempts to elect a new leader. Largely,” she muttered, “because most of them couldn’t dip a quill in ink if you paid them a galleon for the job.”

_I hate you._

“Anyway,” she muttered, “what does he expect to do with a servant if he finds one?

“I don’t know if he’s thought that far ahead,” he muttered. 

_I think he just wants…_

_… revenge_

“There’s another thing,” she said. 

 _Hecate wept, what_ now _?_

“Is Harry alright?” She asked, fixing her eyes on him again. 

Er… 

“What do you mean?” He asked. 

“From what I saw in that forest last night,” she said, “I’d say there’s a good chance Potter has sustained some spell damage.”

_Spell damage?_

“Has he told you anything about the magic they used to defeat Riddle?” She asked. 

He shook his head. His mind was filled with images of the Mental Maladies team. His mind was filled with that memory Mum had shown him of Aunt Bella in St. Mungo’s. He remembered what he’d been told about Neville Longbottom’s parents, who lived permanently at the hospital. 

_Is that what the Light thought?_

_That Potter has spell damage?_

_Is that why they tried to send him to St Mungo’s…?_

“No, John couldn’t get anything out of him either. You need to find out.” Her eyes were very dark, looking at him. Her Black eyes had never matched her silver Malfoy hair, but she refused to change them. “Keep an eye on him. Watch out for any changes in his normal temperament. He might need treatment.”

_You're wrong. You don't even know him._

_Potter is brave and noble and he’s a hero._

_There’s nothing wrong with him._

“So when are you going back?” She asked, her tone turning businesslike again. 

He frowned. “I told you. Potter needs some time away.” 

She shook her head. “Go back and help Potter make up with his friends.”

_I’m Sir’s replacement._

That’s _what she’s trying to say._

_Now that Sir is gone, I can’t delay it any longer._

That’s _what she means._  

He could feel his mouth twisting into an unhappy frown. “You said you and dad were going to leave the country. You said you were going to Dubrovnik.”

“Our plans have changed. As I told you,” she said in a clipped voice. It was her I’m-getting-impatient-with-you-now voice. “Your father is a ruin. He’s barely standing. He must stay here. The only way I can make the estate secure is to close the wards down.”

A shiver went through him. “Close the wards down?”

“No-one will be able to get in, and no-one will be able to get out. That will protect us in case anyone—from the Light or the Dark—tries to get in. And it will protect your father from getting out.”

“How long for?” He asked.

_Where am I supposed to go?_

If he took Potter back out there beyond the wards, the Light would find them in a few minutes. They clearly had some kind of tracking device on Potter—be it the Trace or something else. Potter would be taken away and locked up in the hospital before you could say ‘Mental Malady’.  And Draco Malfoy? What would happen to him? 

_I could… leave._

He had money, he had a passport, he had a car. He was eighteen years old. He could walk away from this. From all of it. Forever.

 _Potter…_  

He didn’t even care about the life debt. Something else bound him to Potter. A force he couldn’t control—had never been able to control. While he breathed, while his heart beat, he couldn’t leave Potter. 

“I don’t know yet,” she replied. “However long your father needs. It could be as much as a few months.”

“So I won’t be able to contact you at all? No owls, no Firecalls, no mobile phones?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be in touch.”

_So… you won’t be able to check on me._

_You’ll have no idea what I’m doing._

Suddenly he could see the bright side of this arrangement. “Okay,” he lied through his teeth, “I’ll take Potter to the Weasleys’ house. That’s probably the best place to go. He probably won’t need that much convincing.”

His mother stood up and started rummaging in the cupboards which lined the walls. “Here,” she said, turning around. “I’m giving you the tools for your mission now. So you have everything you need.” 

 _Yeah, like_ that’s _the first thing on my mind right now._

But he said nothing as she laid a large Time Turner and a folded piece of parchment on the desk before him. He put the Time Turner in his pocket.

She opened the parchment and spread it on the desk. “This is the schedule for the safe house, if you need it. These blank spaces indicate free dates. But it is not completely reliable. When you enter, remember to always—”

“Mark the door with the rune for ‘Do Not Disturb’,” he interrupted. “I know.”

She gave him a look as if she disapproved of his facetiousness.

He re-folded the parchment and put it in his pocket along with the Time Turner. 

_Now all I need to do is get Potter out of the house without seeing mum or dad._

“Well,” he said, standing up and walking to her side of the desk. “I’d better be going, then. Are you and dad going to bed?”

_Please say yes._

“I don’t know what your father is doing,” she sniffed. “I suppose it’s my turn with the baby.” She was looking at the framed photo on her desk. It was a photograph of a young woman with long red hair. 

He’d never seen another photo of the woman. Mum said it was a childhood friend of hers. But he’d always been puzzled by the fact that it was a Muggle photograph. 

She stood up and reached out to embrace him. He returned the hug. 

“Good luck,” she said. “John was very proud of you. So am I. And your father.”

_I don’t know why._

_I did everything wrong._

_And it’s your fault for expecting it of me in the first place._  

He wondered if he was as heartless as she was because neither of them were crying. He’d only lost Sir in the battle. She’d lost her sister as well. 

“Bye, mum,” he said, and turned and walked out of the room. 

He needed to wake Potter. 

_Sir, I know I promised to tell Potter the truth._

_But if I do that, mum and dad will find out as well._

And I’m not sure I can live with that.


	29. I Dreamed Something Terrible

**Harry**

_All was well._

He woke with a start. It was dark. He was drenched in cold sweat. Fear gripped his heart like a vice. Someone was shaking him awake.

"Wake up, Potter," the voice was low, urgent. "You have to wake up."

He sat up, heart racing, clutching for his wand. He had no wand. He leapt, flew through the air and tackled his attacker. They bowled over and landed on the floor.

"Oof!" The attacker huffed, "Potter! Potter, stop! It's okay, it's just me!"

_Malfoy._

It was Malfoy. He rolled off him. A light came on. He looked around. He was in an unfamiliar room. He had tackled Malfoy to the ground. Two House Elves were looking down at him.

"Hecate, Potter," Malfoy groaned, picking himself up off the floor. "Wake up much?"

_Oh, God…_

He put his hands to his head. He had a splitting headache.

_…oh, no…_

The sense of dread still laid heavy on his shoulders. He felt as if his skin was crawling.

_…Oh my god, that was…_

He'd dreamed something…something terrible.

_Something awful._

He just couldn't remember what it was.

A light came on, low in the corner of the room. The House Elves stood there with a large rucksack sitting on the floor between them.

"Potter, we need to leave," Malfoy said.

He blinked up at Malfoy. "What?"

"The Elves have packed a bag for you. They'll clean your clothes while you take a shower. You need to be ready in fifteen minutes."

"What's in the bag?"

"Supplies. I'm not kidding, Potter. If you don't want a shower that's up to you, but don't be offended if I use a clothespeg charm for the duration of the drive."

"Drive?" He stood up. His brain did not seem to be working. All he wanted was to crawl back into bed and sleep forever. Everything was foggy and indistinct. An Elf was leading him toward a door at the far end of the room.

"Fifteen minutes, Potter," Malfoy said, and then left the room.

"What time is it?" He said, yawning so wide he felt his head was going to crack open.

"Nearly midnight, Mister Potter," said the Elf.

"Who are you?" He asked the Elf.

"I am Snopes," the Elf inclined its head. "If it please Mister Potter."

_Snopes._

Alright, then.

He was so out of it he didn't even protest when the Elf accompanied him into the bathroom and turned the shower on before disappearing without a word.

_Okay…whatever._

Still fighting enormous yawns, he stripped off. His clothes were disgusting, he realised as he peeled them off. He'd been wearing them what felt like weeks.

_Urgh._

He left everything on the floor and climbed sleepily into the shower. Clouds of steam enveloped him and he found himself under the best shower he had ever experienced. It was hot, very hot, in the best way possible, and it was like standing under a tropical downpour.

_I could live in this shower._

_Maybe I'll just stay here forever._

Eventually he located some shampoo and soap and a flannel and began to scrub down.

_Oh Merlin…_

He felt like he was being born again. He hadn't realised how dirty he felt or how sore his muscles and bruises were, or how many little cuts and scratches were hidden under all the soot and dirt caked into his skin.

_Ow._

He'd woken up gripped with the same terror which had haunted his awakening this morning after the battle, the first time he'd had the dream. Nightmare.

_Something was different._

He didn't really want to remember, but found himself roaming through his thoughts, searching for memories.

_Something was very different._

He shrugged and decided not to think about it any more.

_It doesn't matter._

_It's just a stupid dream._

_Nightmare._

He washed once, and rinsed off, and then he washed again, until he was covered neck to toes in thick white lather. He washed his hair twice and even put in conditioner afterward.

He could tell all of the shampoo and soap and everything was expensive, as expensive as he would expect for Malfoy Manor. It all came in big frosted glass bottles with gilded tags on chains around the necks, and it smelled so aromatic that it filled the whole shower with heady fumes. He'd thought the Prefects' Bathroom was luxurious. This took it to another level.

When he finally emerged from the shower, he found a towel waiting for him on a rail next to the shower. He wrapped it carefully around his body. It was all toasty and warm.

He dried off—the towel was the thickest, softest he had ever felt—and then found, to his amazement, his clothes sitting folded on a dresser near the door. Clean, fragrant, ironed, and the stains had been removed and a large tear in the knee of his jeans repaired.

He pulled on his clothes. It felt amazing to put on fresh-smelling clothes which he could tell were actually clean. Hermione had done the laundry while they were camping and as good a witch as she was… well, he'd gotten in big trouble for complaining one time and had never said a word after that, no matter how mildewy his clothes got.

He pulled on his socks. That was heaven. Clean socks were heaven.

He felt so good, it seemed ridiculous to think that he had been crying or having a terrible nightmare just a little while before. There was no reason to cry or have nightmares. Everything was going great.

_I'm a real idiot sometimes._

He was on his way to find the remaining Death Eaters and bring them to justice. He'd even managed to find the perfect person to help him do it.

_He's trying to get on my good side._

That was what he had realised over the past few hours. Malfoy wanted to clear his name and he was willing to sell the other Death Eaters down the river to do it. 

_I'll have him eating from the palm of my hand._

Then—bang! Bang! Bang! Someone was banging on the bathroom door. It frightened him so badly he almost jumped out of his skin.

"Potter! Hurry up!" Malfoy's voice came through the door.

"Please fuck off," he replied, deeply annoyed at this intrusion on his shower heaven.

He ran a hand through his hair. He needed it cut, he supposed. It had grown rather long over the months in the wilderness, though once or twice he'd asked Hermione to hack at it with her wand.

He stepped up to the sink and looked at himself in the mirror.

_Jesus!_

His face looked like he'd been hit with that swelling curse Hermione had used on him last time he'd been at Malfoy Manor. His nose, eyes and forehead were swollen, puffy and blotched with red. 

_That's from crying._

His eyelids were so swollen they looked like they'd been inflated with a pump. He poked at them for a bit, trying to deflate them, but it didn't make any difference. His eyes were tiny and so bloodshot the whites weren't white at all, but dull and reddish.

Well, he didn't care what he looked like.

He took a deep breath and was shocked to find it was still juddery and jumpy, as if there were more sobs lurking there somewhere within him.

_Was I crying in my sleep?_

He hoped not.

_I don't cry._

_I just don't._

_It's just not something I do._

He couldn't remember the last time he had cried. He racked his brains, trying to remember the last time it had happened.

_Nope._

He hadn't cried when Sirius died (not really, anyway). He hadn't cried when Dumbledore died. He hadn't cried when Mad-Eye or Lupin or Fred or Dobby died.

He must have been a very small child, maybe just a baby, when he'd last cried.

He looked into the mirror again.

_All those people died._

_I should cry over that._

He didn't look in the mirror again. Just opened the door and left the bathroom to find his shoes.


	30. We Used To Dance

**Draco**

_I just need to get Potter out of the house._

His mind was whirring as he walked out of mum’s study and back down the corridor toward his bedroom. 

“Draco—”

He turned at the sound of his mother’s voice. 

“Don’t tell your father I’m planning to close the wards,” she said. 

He frowned. “Wh—”

“Just do as I say,” she replied curtly, and shut the door to her study. 

_I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell Dad._

His father hated leaving home. 

_If it were up to him he would probably never leave…_

_Anyway…_

He had other things to think about. Namely, getting Potter out of the house without Potter realising his parents were there. 

_I’m so tired._

He’d nodded off while tied to the taps in the Gryffindor showers that morning—he had no idea how long for—but that hardly counted as sleep. 

_I need to wake Potter up, and then…_

He could take Potter out through the central part of the house, avoiding the family entrance they’d used to come in today. 

_Yes._

_We’ll just go through the front door._

It was the simplest solution. 

_Perfect._

He could see the door of his bedroom up ahead, beckoning. He wanted so badly to go inside and just lie down on his bed and go to sleep. If he went in there, if he opened the door, the urge to sleep was going to overwhelm him. 

_I shouldn’t have smoked father’s pipe._

The smoke had a relaxing effect, which was why Father loved it so much. But it wasn’t exactly helpful for getting sulky Harry Potters out of bed in the middle of the night and traipsing off into the night again. He was starting to get a headache and his eyes were burning. 

_Ugh._

“Snithy,” he said quietly, and the Elf appeared immediately, with his usual deep bow. “Where did you put Potter?”

Snithy pointed to one of the guest bedrooms at the end of the corridor. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. “You can go.” 

The Elf faded away, as silently as fading smoke. 

_Right._

_Get Potter, leave as quickly and quietly as possible…_

_What about Dad?_

He stopped. He couldn’t leave without saying good bye to his father. 

_I don’t know when I’ll see him again._

_I’ll just pop downstairs quickly._

He knew his father, and he knew that he would be in the library. He might even sleep in the library, on the big leather sofa under the woollen blanket. He couldn’t leave, just like that, knowing Dad was in the library on his own with only Snufling for company.

_I’ll just pretend I’m saying goodnight._

_If he knows I’m leaving, he might get suspicious…_

If he didn’t know better, it could be just another normal evening at Malfoy Manor. The sweet scent of beeswax rising from candelabra placed along the corridor and the low golden light from the candle flames. The dense, peaceful quiet. Through the windows, the moon rising over the landscaped gardens. 

_Home._

The relief he’d felt when he came back to the house to find the Death Eaters gone was still there. And he couldn’t help feeling immensely relieved for his father. Relieved Riddle was dead, so father was free from the hated role he’d had to play. Now he wanted to see father sitting in his library, sipping cognac and reading a book, like he always did in the evening. 

_Then I’ll know I’m home._

But by the time he got to the bottom of the stairs, though, his instincts were alert. He could hear music, and the smell of pipe smoke was drifting down the hallway. 

 _He’s definitely not asleep…_  

The library door was open and silhouetted in its frame was his father’s tall, lanky figure. Golden light was pouring from the library into the corridor and along with it, music. A waltz playing, loud and strident. Dad loved waltzes.

 _Oh…_  

His father was standing there in a velvet dressing gown, with a perilously full cognac glass in one hand and his pipe in the other. 

“Darling, I thought I heard you,” his father said, stretching out his arms. “Come here.” 

His father curled an arm around his shoulders and led him into the library, closing the door behind them. 

“Isn’t this beautiful?” Dad said as the music swelled, closing his eyes and starting to waltz with an imaginary partner. 

_He used to make Sir dance with him, even though Sir hated it…_

“How we used to dance,” his father said dreamily, twirling past a wing chair, his long silver hair flying out behind him. 

_He’s drunk._

_Really drunk._

He stood there, staring at his father. Suddenly he didn’t want to see any more. 

_This is wrong._

_This is all wrong._

“John is a terrible dancer,” father said, stepping elegantly around a side table, and then losing his balance, wobbling right onto the sofa and flinging himself down. He started laughing. “My drink—Draco, refill that—”

He had sloshed cognac all over his robe. 

_Why is he laughing?_

“Dad,” he said, sitting down on the sofa next to him. “About Sir…”

“John didn’t like cognac,” his father sighed, his giggles subsiding. He sat up and drained what was left of the glass before reaching behind him for the crystal decanter which sat on the console table. “He always nagged me, Lucius, you drink too much. You smoke too much…”

“I…” he said, but found he was lost for words. 

_Sir, how could you leave?_

_Look at Dad._

_What is he going to do without you?_

“And I would say, John, darling, anything that gets you through the night,” his father babbled on, taking a large gulp of his drink and starting to puff on his pipe again. “Oh, would you listen to that…” He leaned back on the sofa, conducting an imaginary orchestra. 

He’d wanted to talk to father about Sir, but now he just wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible. 

_I don’t want to see any more._

He reached over and hugged his father. “Goodnight, Dad. I’m going to bed now.”

“No—don’t leave—” Dad said, holding on to him. There was an edge of panic in his voice. “Draco, stay here with me. Don’t you want a drink or something?”

_He’s afraid._

He pulled himself away. “I’m so tired, Dad. I really need to go to bed—good night, love you—” He didn’t stop to listen to his father’s reply, just slipped out the door and closed it behind him. As he hurried up the stairs, he recognised the feeling in his stomach. It was fear. 

_Where is Sir?_

Knowing Dad was afraid made him feel afraid. Very afraid. 

_Who’s going to comfort Dad?_

To see his father vulnerable and scared, to hear the desperation in his voice. It terrified him. Made him feel like a little child again, helpless, overwhelmed. 

_What is going to happen to Dad without Sir?_

He started to run up the stairs as if he could outrun the feeling of powerlessness. 

_I need to get out of here._

*

He’d been pacing in Potter’s room, with the door locked from the inside, not daring to leave apart from a quick trip to his room to grab some extra clothes.

_I can’t take it any more._

He marched up to the door of the bathroom and hammered on it with his fist. “Potter! Hurry up!”

“Please fuck off,” Potter’s voice replied wearily from within. 

Potter emerged finally looking damp and puffy in the face, his eyelids swollen like he’d been crying for a long time. Potter looked horrendous, but he found himself not caring. 

_Somehow he still looks good… to me._

_Having Potter at the Manor…_

_It feels…_

It felt intimate. It felt as if Potter was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. 

_And I’m seeing him…_

_I didn’t hate you._

_I never hated you, Potter._

He could see that now. He could see how his fears, his jealousy, his anger at Potter’s endless rejections, had masked his feelings and been the result of them, at the same time. 

_Hecate curse it all, it wasn’t hate._

He didn’t know what it had been, but how could it be hate? When he felt the way he did about Potter now? 

_Thump._

That was his heart. 

“So?” Potter said. “Where are we going, then?”

Potter was emanating damp, warm sandalwood which he inhaled with trepidation. Running underneath it was another scent, human, Potter. His head swam.

_Thump._

He was afraid to breathe in and yet he wanted to so very much. The Elves had mended Potter’s t-shirt and the delicate span of his collar bone was no longer visible. He noticed a freckle on Potter’s neck he’d never seen before. 

_Oh my Hecate, Potter._

There was a spot for Potter in the pit of his stomach, in the centre of his ribcage. It fluttered around his heart. It hurt and it pined, it waited and wanted. He’d tried to fill that spot with anger, with resentment, with jealousy, with petty grudges and pet hates. But the more he tried to fill it, it had only come back stronger, hungrier, burning hotter, dancing higher. 

Now that he knew…now that he knew… 

 _I’m in love with you…_  

Any time Potter looked at him, he felt it there. Any time Potter came near him. Any time Potter entered the same room as him. Any time Potter spoke in a low voice. Any time Potter said his name. Even though it was not his first name, it was the name that Potter called him. 

The name that Potter called him in his head. 

_Malfoy._

“Er—” he breathed, feeling himself blush. He felt flustered and he couldn’t think straight. 

_That’s an understatement._

“We, er—” he stammered. “Just take a left and keep walking,” he got out finally. 

Potter gave him an odd look, then nodded and walked out of the room. 

Shaking his head, he followed Potter out the door and down the corridor. “Just go straight,” he said to Potter, trying to keep his voice low. The end of the corridor was where the family wing met the hulking mass of the main house, and there was a door connecting the two. 

_I just need to get Potter through there._

They would have to pass by his mother’s apartments—her study was adjoined by a bedroom, bathroom and dining room. 

_We’ll be fine._

_Dad has passed out by now._

_And Mum is probably taking a bath or something._

He hurried up a little to catch up with Potter. He never imagined he would have Potter all to himself. He was alone with Potter all the time. It was like heaven and hell at once. 

_I’m in agony._

_I’m in ecstasy._

_I’m with Harry Potter._


	31. The Fake, The Freak, The Unwanted

**Harry**

He walked along down the long, long corridor. It was deathly quiet so his feet hardly seemed to make a noise. His senses were alert now.  
Malfoy had said all the Death Eaters were gone. In fact, he'd put on quite a show of seeming happy that they were gone.

_But how do I know it's true?_

The day he believed anything Draco Malfoy told him was the day he found out he'd had an extra head on his shoulders all his life and everyone had just been too polite to mention it.

 _There may still be Death Eaters here_.

The house was clearly enormous. There could be any number of people hiding away here, waiting to pounce on him at any moment.

_Or cowering in the shadows._

_Hoping I don't find them and arrest them._

"Where are we going?" He called to Malfoy.

He heard a sharp intake of breath from Malfoy, and then a whisper. Malfoy's padding footsteps came up behind him and Malfoy fell into step beside him.

"Be quiet," Malfoy hissed.

He laughed loudly. "Why? Afraid I might disturb your precious House Elves?"

Malfoy frowned at him.

_What was that whisper?_

He narrowed his eyes at Malfoy. "Did you just cast a spell on me?"

Malfoy pursed his lips. Then he said, "I cast  _Muffliato_. We have to be quiet."

He rolled his eyes and said in a loud voice, "Why, Malfoy? Why do we have to be quiet?"

Malfoy's eyes darted about, his eyes finding the doors of the rooms they were passing. "Because," he hissed. "If the Elves realise we're trying to leave the house, they'll try to stop us."

_I'm sorry, what?_

Malfoy glared at him. "As _I think you know_ , Potter, House Elves are very protective. They know Riddle is dead and they don't want me to be in danger any more." The long hallway ended in a door, which Malfoy opened and held open for him. "So just keep your voice down and walk quickly so we can get out of here."

"Fine," he muttered, stopping before the open door. It was darkness beyond. "You go first."

Malfoy slipped through, taking his wand from his sleeve and muttering, "Lumos."

He followed Malfoy's wand light into the darkness. As soon as he was through, Malfoy closed the door and walked off briskly down what seemed to be another long corridor. He caught up to Malfoy.

_Is he trying to lead me away from Death Eaters?_

_Wish I had a wand on me…_

The light of Malfoy's wand illuminated the darkness. From what he could see, this corridor was more accurately described as a hallway. It was much bigger than the one they'd left, grander, with huge paintings all along the walls.

"Potter," Malfoy said, and he felt Malfoy's hand brush against his arm.

_Oi!_

He moved his arm away quickly, but Malfoy grabbed it, he wrenched it away again—and then the world went funny. He felt a compressing sensation squeeze his entire body—blackness flashed in front of his eyes—

_Wha—_

—and with a thump he found himself lying on the carpeted floor, gasping for breath, the wind knocked out of him. He scrambled up, panting. The light was gone and it was pitch dark.

_Where am I?_

"Hecate—" He heard Malfoy's voice, and a scrabbling sound.

"Malfoy, what the fuck was that?" He walked forward a few paces, but it was pitch dark and he couldn't see his hand in front of his face.

"I—" Malfoy said. "Are you alright, Potter?"

_What?_

"No, I'm not alright, Malfoy," he said aggressively, his anger mounting.

_I don't have a wand._

_Did he take me somewhere else?_

"Oh Hecate," Malfoy's voice said in the darkness. "Are you splinched? Are you bleeding?"

He could hear footsteps somewhere in the dark and something crashed into him. He jumped. "Jesus!" Arms grasped him. He leapt away and ran into something big and vertical—a wall?

"Potter!"

The arms found him again. He shook them off. "Don't touch me! What in Merlin's name is going on? Where am I?"

He could hear Malfoy's breath, quick and panicky. "I tried to Disapparate," Malfoy breathed. "I tried to take you Side-Along but you—you moved and—the Disapparition aborted. My other enchantments were interrupted at the same time, the  _Lumos_  and  _Muff_ —"

_You did what?_

He flung his fist into the darkness and it made contact.

"Ugh!"

He launched himself at Malfoy, even though he couldn't see him, and started hitting everything he could. Malfoy pushed him away, hard, and he rebounded against something hard and cracked his head.

"Argh—Jesus Christ—"

"I've never heard you swear like a Muggle," Malfoy's voice said, sounding resentful even though he was panting.

_What the fuck is he talking about._

He flailed his arms but they met nothing.

_Coward._

"That's right," he said. "Run away like a little baby. I should beat you for what you did. I could have been splinched, Malfoy, fuck!"

"You're not splinched?" Malfoy's voice came out of the dark.

"No, I'm not, and could you please turn on a light?"

"I lost my wand, Potter, do you think I want to grope around like this?"

"Well that's bloody perfect, isn't it?" He roared, having half a mind to turn around and slam his fist into the wall behind him.

"Shut up!"

"Darling?"

 _Who the_ fuck _is that?_

The corridor flooded with light. Dozens of lamps lit up all along the high-ceilinged corridor. He was momentarily blinded. A tall figure was bending down in the middle of the hallway, helping Malfoy to his feet.

_Lucius Malfoy._

The tall figure turned to him.

_That's Lucius Malfoy._

_I knew Malfoy was lying._

_Treacherous, poisonous little scab._

Lucius Malfoy was wearing a long dressing gown which hung open to his navel. His long blond hair was spread over his shoulders. Lucius Malfoy's eyes fixed on him and a huge smile spread over his face. "Harry!" He said in a delighted voice, and flung his arms wide.

_What._

_The._

_Fuck._

His senses were alight. He could see, hear, feel, everything with split-second clarity. A few feet to his right was a table with a pair of vases—he grabbed one and held it in his hand. Its weight reassured him.

_I don't have a wand._

_But I have this._

The next thing he knew, Malfoy had darted in front of him and Malfoy was talking a mile a minute. "Daddy, Pott—Harry and I are going for a walk. Come on, Harr—Potter. Okay, Dad, see you later. I just tripped and lost my wand, oh, there it is—"

Malfoy's wand was lying nearby.

_Malfoy's wand._

He and Malfoy both leapt for the wand at the same time.

_It's mine._

He landed just before Malfoy, got the wand with one hand, but then Malfoy crashed into him and grabbed the rest of the wand with his two hands.

_This isn't like catching the Snitch._

_I won't hold back, Malfoy_.

"Boys!" Lucius Malfoy's voice was laughing.

He kicked Malfoy's legs with his own and heard Malfoy yelp in pain. Malfoy let go of the wand.

"Come on, come and have a drink in the library. I must play you  _Ring of the Nibelungs_."

_Yes._

The wand was his. "Diffindo!" He shouted, swinging the wand in the direction of Lucius Malfoy. A chunk of the wall in front of them exploded into powder and he ducked to avoid it.

Then he felt Malfoy's arms wrap around him tightly, just like they had the last time he'd seen Hermione, when the lime green robes had appeared in the clearing in the forest. Apparition compressed him like a sardine in a tin, threatening to take his breath.

He heard Malfoy shout, "Daddy we're just going for a walk bye!"

Then he was out in the open air, he could smell green grass and the moon and stars were overhead. He gasped, staggered.

_Malfoy_

_You scum—_

_You absolute piece of—_

He lunged at Malfoy. But Malfoy was ready for him. Malfoy pushed him, hard, toward the tall hedge which towered over them. The hedge opened before him and he staggered out into a narrow lane flanked by hedges. He almost fell on his face, righted himself, and stood there, breathing heavily, until Malfoy came out after him and the hedge closed behind him.

He threw a punch at Malfoy that went wide, because Malfoy ducked. He went for Malfoy, who ducked again, and he ran after him, and chased him down the moonlit lane.

"Potter! Stop! Listen to me!"

"You won't even fight me!" He shouted at Malfoy, chasing him like the Snitch, longing to grab him—hit him—

_The hedge._

_I need to get back in there._

"Potter, they're going to come after you, you're not safe!" Malfoy shouted, and then stopped dead in the middle of the lane.

He ignored Malfoy and turned to the hedge.

_Lucius Malfoy is in there._

"Potter, they're not arresting Death Eaters right now. The Ministry is fucked. That's why—the Portkey. Shacklebolt's Portkey—"

He plunged his hands into the hedge and tried to prise the branches apart. His fingers tore. It was as dense as the scrubby side of a kitchen sponge.

_Argh!_

"That's why the Portkey didn't work, Potter. Shacklebolt was just trying to get rid of me. There aren't even any guards in Azkaban. Potter!"

He kicked the hedge. Got hold of a branch and leaned back and kicked with all his might.

"Potter! Potter—"

He paused, out of breath, and turned to Malfoy. "You're a lying little ferret. You know that?"

Malfoy was standing there, holding his wand toward him.

"Don't you fucking point your fucking wand at me!" He shouted, disengaging himself from the hedge and marching on Malfoy, clenching his fist, feeling the blow building in his arm.

_I'm going to break his jaw._

Malfoy stood his ground, holding his palm open, wand lying in the centre of it, pointing toward him.

"No, it's—it's for you," Malfoy said, and let his wand slide out of his sleeve into his hand. He had a wand in each hand, one by his side, the other held out openly in front of him. "This wand is for you."

He looked Malfoy up and down.

"Take it," Malfoy said, out of breath. "They could be here any moment. You need it."

"Fuck off," he said, and turned away, looking at the hedge.

_I need a saw or something._

_Cut down those branches._

He felt a movement near his side and leapt to the side. It was Malfoy, kneeling down on the ground, offering the wand up with both hands.

"By the honour of my forebears, I offer this wand to you, Harry Potter. Will you do me the honour of accepting it?" Malfoy looked up and met his eyes. "It belonged," Malfoy said in a less formal tone, "to my grandfather. The core is phoenix feather. But not that phoenix."

_What is he playing at?_

"Leave my father alone," Malfoy said finally, standing up. "He can't go to Azkaban again. Please just leave him alone."

_They're all in on it._

The revelation was almost a relief.

_The whole Malfoy family, trying to get away from justice again._

He looked at Malfoy and all he could think of was Wormtongue. Fawning, grovelling Peter Pettigrew. Doing anything to keep himself safe. Paying tribute to whoever was in power. Doing whatever he thought would give him some benefit.

_You disgust me._

"Whatever, Malfoy," he said, and swiped the wand from his hand and in one fluid motion turned toward the hedge. "Diffindo!" He shouted. The spell went into the hedge with no discernible effect. Not even a leaf stirred.

_Bloody hell._

"Confringo!" He shouted with all his power. The hedge absorbed the spell with no result whatsoever. Not a whisp of smoke. Not a singed leaf in sight.

"It's  _warded_ , Potter," Malfoy said in an exasperated voice. "Your mates are going to find you any second. I need to get the car. It will be harder for them to find us if we're moving at 60 miles per hour. Would you let me cast a cloaking charm on you, at least?"

_La la la_

_I'm not listening to anything you say._

"Potter!" Malfoy shouted. "It only took them a few minutes to find you last time. They're coming back, and this time they're not going to let you go. You're too important to them, Potter."

"Go fuck yourself," he said loudly, not looking at Malfoy.

"Fine!" Malfoy said. "I'm going to get the car so we can leave the country, where they won't be able to find you any more. Just don't get yourself caught while I'm away."

He saw Malfoy trot up to the hedge, which opened for him—

_The hedge!_

He dived after Malfoy, launching himself toward him—but Malfoy slipped through and the hedge closed behind him immediately, and he crashed into it with all the grace of a Bludger filling in for a Snitch..

_Fuck._

He sat down. He was alone. He recognised that there was a part of his mind which had known that once he crossed this threshold he would never come back again. That walking into Malfoy Manor unarmed was like duelling a dragon with a wand made of cheese.

_I didn't think I would come out of there alive._

But… here he was.

Under the hedge it was fragrant, quiet and cool. He was reminded suddenly of the Forbidden Forest last night, when he'd gone to his death. The shades who had guided him under the trees and stars to die.

_Auntie…_

He realised he'd stopped short.

_What?_

_What did you just say?_

He forced the thought down, sickened suddenly.

_Don't think about that._

He forced himself to concentrate on the stars in the sky. It was dark navy blue, and the summer stars were splayed out across it crystal clear.

_What did I dream about just now—after I cried?_

_Don't think about it!_

He didn't know why he would suddenly start thinking about his aunt. That was the distant past, it was nothing, it didn't exist.

_Don't think about that dream._

_Nightmare._

People died. Being sad was normal. All those people had died.

_See?_

_There's nothing wrong._

_This is all very normal…_

_Auntie._

_Stop that!_

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Even Tonks—and Lupin—they had died. Leaving behind a baby. Just like his parents, when they'd left him behind.

_Teddy._

_Teddy Lupin._

Who had the baby now? He was struck by a bizarre image of Hagrid carrying the baby away on Sirius' motorcycle and leaving it on a Muggle doorstep.

Just now when he'd been thrown out of Malfoy Manor, how he had known he would never come out again.

_But I did._

He remembered how he had felt when he went into the forest, how he had known he would never come out again.

_But I did._

He remembered his dream. Nightmare.

He remembered Barney Weasley, the fake, the freak, the unwanted.

He remembered the dream. Nightmare. That he couldn't remember.

_Auntie._

_I'm not afraid of death any more._

But why did he have to come back to this flipped turned around topsy-turvy world?

He could see things so clearly now.

_But I don't want to see them._


	32. Techniques of Deception

**Draco**

"Go fuck yourself!

Potter's words rang in his ears as he ducked back through the wards.

_Hecate wept._

The moment he was through the wards he Disapparated. He reappeared in a small copse of trees which surrounded the garage.

_Well, I guess it could have gone worse._

Moving quickly, he nipped inside and unlocked the car.

_Potter could have actually hit Dad with that curse._

_Dad could have actually succeeded in hugging him..._

He turned the key in the ignition and felt the engine hum into life.

_I need to get out of here, now._

The garage was hidden out of sight some way away from the house, but that didn't mean his mother didn't know he was still on the grounds. She would be waiting for him to send her a Patronus or some other sign that he had left the grounds, so she could start the process of closing the wards.

_When she finds out…_

He put his foot down and accelerated right out of the garage and onto the dirt track which connected the garage to the long driveway which led from the main gates of the estate to the front of the manor.

_Dad was way too drunk._

_He didn't realise Potter was trying to curse him._

He was sure of it. He'd heard his father belly-laughing while he and Potter were fighting over the wand, thinking it was a silly boys' game. He'd heard his father shriek with laughter when Potter blew a hole in the plaster with that Diffindo.

_No, Dad was totally oblivious._

_But the House Elves won't be._

Because House Elves could always sense when their masters were in danger, and they would have felt the murderous hatred coming off of Potter just as surely as he'd seen it in Potter's eyes.

_Potter was ready to—_

_—to hurt Dad._

_I saw violence in his eyes._

_The Elves were probably already there, watching._

_They just hadn't showed themselves yet._

He couldn't help reliving the moment Dad had appeared in the hallway. Dad must have sensed the magic going on in what was supposed to be an empty part of the house and come to investigate.

_What a debacle._

Getting Potter out of the house had started as a logistical nightmare and turned into an actual nightmare.

_A waking nightmare._

_I shouldn't have tried that Side-Along._

The idea had just gripped him suddenly once he got Potter into the portrait gallery.

_Why didn't I think of this before?_

_It's the quickest way to get Potter out of the house!_

—and then it had gone wrong, because he'd lost his grip on Potter, which made him lose his concentration, which meant that he and Potter had Apparated about twenty feet before the Apparition failed. He'd landed painfully on the elbow of his wand arm, which had thrown his wand across the room. And losing his concentration also meant that all his other enchantments were cut off suddenly—the Muffliato and Lumos.

_I am such an idiot._

Of course it had taken a few moments while all of this was going on for him to remember why he hadn't thought of Side-Alonging Potter before. Because Apparating another person without their permission was also known as kidnapping, and Potter was hardly going to trust him more if he made a habit out of it, and he'd already done it once. Because Apparating another person was dangerous and there was more chance of being Splinched, and Potter was obviously going to fight it if Draco Malfoy touched him because Potter didn't want Draco Malfoy to touch him. Because asking Potter,

_Can I Side-Along you out of this house because I'm trying to cover up the fact my parents are here?_

was clearly not an option… If he'd been smart he could have just asked Dad to activate Apparating privileges for Potter, then gone and fetched Potter.

_Yeah, way to work that one out, genius boy._

Dad was so drunk he'd probably have given half the wizards in England ward access.

"Draco!"

_Sweet Hecate—_

He jumped in shock and momentarily lost control, swerving the car off the edge of the driveway and onto the grass before getting control back and righting the car.

"What in Hecate's sweet name just happened, Draco?"

_Shit._

_She found me._

His mother's Patronus had appeared right there in the car with him. Her voice was booming out of it and she sounded irate.

_Oh, Hecate._

I _'m rumbled._

His mother, with her mind like a razor, had finally figured it out.

_She knows I've been lying about Potter._

He sighed. He felt oddly calm, as if this didn't mean his world was falling apart.

"Snithwithington just told me that Harry tried to attack your father!"

_Yep._

_That's done it, hasn't it?_

"Err—" he stammered, accelerating.

_Sir, you did your best._

_I know you were just trying to help._

"Draco. Snithwithington said Harry was fighting with you as well, Draco. Is this true?"

_The truth's out now, Sir._

_Mum knows._

He was almost there. The wrought-iron gates were in sight.

_She's going to realise it's all been a lie._

_That Potter and I are not working together._

_That Potter knows nothing about the Malfoys, the Blacks or the Potters …_

"Paranoia, rage, violent outbursts," his mother continued. "Draco, I was right about the spell damage. Harry is ill."

 _Well, I'm sorry, Mum, but I never_ asked _to be part of this family…_

"Draco," she continued. "Harry could hurt someone, or himself."

_Wait._

_What?_

He realised her voice was not angry at  _him_. It was full of a different kind of anger. The anger that came from fear. The anger of a parent at a child in danger.

"Take him to a Healer, Draco. Take him to St Mungo's if you have to—Draco, are you listening—"

He was too stunned to do anything other than mutter, "Okay, mum, okay, I will. I'm leaving now."

The front gates were opening automatically.

"Alright. Good-bye Draco, I love you. Take care." the Patronus replied, dwindling to a bright, wispy speck and finally fading away.

In the rearview mirror he saw the gates to the Malfoy estate close behind him as he turned down the narrow road.

He took a couple of deep breaths as he took in the last few minutes and realised what had happened.

Mum had  _not_  figured it out. She had  _not_  seen through his lie. On the contrary, he realised, she had interpreted the events through a different lens. Her first reaction had not been to doubt his story. Instead she had focused on Potter. He remembered what she had said earlier in the evening.

_From what I saw in that forest last night, I'd say there's a good chance Potter has sustained some spell damage._

She had decided that Potter had spell damage, and now everything Potter did was evidence to confirm her hypothesis.

He couldn't believe his luck. He had been sure she had figured it out, sure she knew…

_And I didn't say a word._

_I didn't even get a chance to say anything._

_She just… came to that conclusion on her own._

He remembered something Sir had said to him.

_I very rarely lie any longer, Draco._

_I don't need to._

_They trust me._

_They fill things in on their own—in my favour._

He recognised the feeling that was coming over him. Amazement, sheer dumb amazement, followed swiftly by an irony so sharp it hurt.

_Mum wanted me to learn from Sir._

_She wanted me to join him in the Light._

_Eventually, to take his place…_

He'd learned all the techniques of deception from Sir. He'd learned how to avoid truth, how to gain trust, how to shrug off suspicion. But he hadn't used those techniques in the way his mother had intended.

_Instead I…_

_I used them against her…_

He frowned, changed gears and accelerated.

Nothing had changed. His secret was safe.

_But Potter isn't._

_Now Potter's out there on his own._

_The Light could be onto him any second._

He took a left turn and followed the road which ringed the estate back toward where he'd left Potter by the southern boundary.

He turned on the CD player. Bruce Springsteen started singing.

_Roy Orbison sang for the lonely…_

_Hey, that's me and I want you only…_

_Waste your summer praying in vain—_

_For a savior to rise from these streets—_

_Well now, I ain't no hero, that's understood…_

_My car's out back if you're ready to take that long walk—_

_From your front porch to my front seat—_

_The door's open but the ride ain't free…_

He'd played this CD a lot over the past year.

Even the space between the lyrics, when it was just clashing melody and chords, seemed to strain at a meaning which words couldn't express. Something so yearning and wistful, desperate and courageous, that it brought a lump to his throat when he heard it.

He turned a corner and knew he was just a few hundred feet away from the spot where he'd left Potter.

_Oh oh oh oh, Thunder Road—_

_Sit tight, take hold, Thunder Road…_


	33. Homeless

**Harry**

The verge below the hedge was wide, the grass soft. It lay in deep shadow under the towering hawthorn hedge. If Malfoy came looking, he wouldn't see him.

He'd been ready to Apparate, when he'd walked away from Malfoy. His hand on his wand, he had been about to leave. He had.

_I just need a little more time to think._

He couldn't go back to Hogwarts.

He couldn't go to the Burrow.

He couldn't go to Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

He couldn't even go back to Privet Drive.

Not that he would have wanted to.

_Don't—think it—_

He crushed his nails into the soft skin of his palms to try to suppress the thought.

_Auntie._

_Fuck!_

He pushed the thought down, buried it, swept it away, swallowed to contain the sick feeling that rose with it. Even if he had wanted to go there, which he didn't, not ever, not in a million years, they didn't live there any more anyway.

_I don't live there any more._

_I don't live anywhere any more._

And that was when he realised he was homeless.

"Harry,"

"Fuck off, Malfoy—" he replied, before he registered who was speaking.

He looked up. "Ron?"

Because, indeed, it was Ron standing there, looking awkward and sheepish. "Hey, Harry, mate," Ron began, then stopped.

"Yes?" He said, but his voice came out sort of choked.

Seeing Ron there had done something to his insides. His stomach had dropped away and left a black, yawning gap. Fear and nausea were rushing through it like wind through an empty building.

"Er, Harry, mate," Ron said.

_I'm homeless._

"Look…" Ron said, and trailed off. "Bloody hell, Harry."

_I have nowhere to go._

He felt on the verge of panic. He recognised the feeling suddenly. It was the desperate homesickness of a child away from home at night.

_I want to go home._

"Harry…?"

_I can never go home._

"Harry, mate, would you just look at me?"

_I can never go home again._

"Harry—"

He felt a touch to his arm and flinched, shrugging Ron's hand away. Ron sat down next to him, dropping heavily onto the grass.

"Crikey," he huffed, rubbing his face. "I'm knackered, Harry, mate." He let out a lion-sized yawn. "I haven't slept in two days. I didn't get much before we set off for Gringotts. Come on, let's go back to the Burrow and have a good kip."

He couldn't bring himself to reply.

_I relied on him, before._

_I was so scared of being alone, I would do anything._

The stark difference between before and now was staring him in the face. Before, he'd told himself that he wanted to fight Voldemort alone, but he hadn't, not really. He'd wanted them there with him. Because he'd been angry and afraid and there had to be someone else there to take the rap, because he couldn't bear it being just him.

_I was so angry at life._

_I was so scared of death._

That was the lesson he'd learned from death. The two states were much the same.

_No more fear and no more anger._

He realised that Ron was talking and he hadn't heard a word of it.

_No more Ron._

_No more Hermione._

He'd outrun death, and now there was no more need for anything.

"It's okay, Ron," he said, standing up slowly and stretching.

He took Ron's meaning about being tired. He felt a dull, deadly fatigue eating at the edges of him. He didn't know why Malfoy had woken him. He didn't know why they'd needed to leave in the middle of the night, why they couldn't have just left in the morning once he was rested.

_I'm leaving now._

_Please don't try to follow me._

He stood up and started walking away down the dark lane between the hedgerows.

"But—Harry—did you hear what I said?" Ron had leapt to his side, panting slightly. Ron was nervous, he could tell. Why was Ron nervous?

He ignored him, but then someone's wand lit up and there were people in front of him, blocking the path. Before his conscious mind registered them his wand was out and he had shouted, "Protego!"

"Harry—it's us!"

He recognised Ginny's voice and his heart sank.

_Bloody brilliant. Just what I need right now._

"Harry—" Ginny stepped forward. "Please don't run away—"

"I'm not running away!" He snapped, anger rising in him. "Don't send a pack of lime green bloody wizards after me, then!"

"Sorry about that, Harry," Neville said soothingly, appearing out of the shadows behind Ginny. He raised his arms, blocking his body with his wand. They fell back. "They were trying to capture Malfoy."

"Leave off," he said scornfully. "Stop lying, would you? Hermione already told me."

Ginny and Neville exchanged a glance, but neither said anything more. Ron was standing there to one side, chewing on a fingernail and looking at his shoelaces.

"Anyway," he said, "Malfoy is about as dangerous as a puffskein."

"Yeah," Ron piped up, looking at him uncertainly. "Malfoy's a wimp."

He gave Ron, and then the other two in turn, a slow, small smile. "We went to Malfoy Manor, actually. I took a nap. Had a shower. They even gave me this wand…" he twirled it in his fingers.

Ron stared at him, his mouth open a little.

"Wow," Ginny deadpanned. "Real brave of you, Harry. Arrest any Death Eaters while you were there?"

Ron gave a chuckle that sounded forced, like he was choking on dust. "Yeah, good one, Harry, mate. Then you probably cursed them and escaped on the back of a House Elf. Eh, Harry?"

He laughed. "Yeah, Ron. Sure."

"Well, I think it was  _incredibly_  stupid of you," Ginny said. "Going into the Malfoys' house without so much as a wand. What, do you have a death wish or something? Have you not died enough already, can't wait to do it again? Newsflash for you Harry," she leaned forward and whispered, " _you might not come back next time_."

Ron gasped and looked shocked. "Ginny! Take that back! How could you—"

Ginny just narrowed her eyes at him. "Oh, shut the fuck up, Ron."

Ron spluttered and turned purple, but said nothing more.

_You don't get it._

_I'm not afraid of anything anymore._

"The Malfoys are a joke," he said. "As soon as I've used them to get to the Death Eaters I'll be turning all three of them in to the authorities. I won't be happy til I see them sharing a cell in Azkaban."

Ginny folded her arms with a swish of her long ponytail. "We're coming with you."

"I'm sorry?" He resisted the urge to stick a finger in his ear in case something was impairing his hearing.

"We're coming with you," Ginny said again. "To hunt down the remaining Death Eaters."

He frowned at her. For so long, Ginny had been more an idea than a reality. Now he was looking at the real thing, she seemed quite different from how he remembered her. There was something in the way she stood, weight on one leg and hand on that hip, her long pony tail swishing when her head moved, that made her seem totally alien.

 _Who_ is _that?_

"Er—" he said. "No you're not."

"Yes," she replied. "We are."

"No," he said, firmer now. "You're not."

She fixed him with a look which he looked away from after a second.

_I don't want to look at her._

"The escaped Death Eaters," she said, in a voice he'd never heard before, "are a serious security threat. They will want revenge for the DL's death and may be planning retaliations as we speak. Because of the DL's death there is a power vacuum which might be filled by Merlin knows who if we don't act quickly."

He stared at her.

_Huh?_

"Who agrees?" Her voice carried in the darkness.

He looked at the others, who were all looking at Ginny.

"I'm with you, Gin," Neville rumbled, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"Ron?" Ginny said.

Ron shrugged and mumbled something.

"Where's Hermione?" He interrupted. Hermione would talk some sense into these two.

Neville nodded slowly at Ginny, as if he hadn't heard him. "You have a point, Gin. There's probably plenty of Death Eaters who've been waiting for the DL to pop off so they can have a punt at filling his shoes."

"Are you with me, then?" Ginny asked.

"Of course," Neville said simply.

"I reckon you're right, Ginny," Ron said after a moment.

He finally found his voice. "Has the whole world gone mad? What in God's name are you listening to  _her_  for?"

His voice didn't echo or ring out even though he realised he was shouting. The night or the hawthorn hedges seemed to absorb the sound so his voice sounded blunt, heavy, dead.

"Jesus fucking Christ, this is—this is ridiculous!"

Ron took hold of his shoulder. "Harry, would you  _shut up_?"

He stared at Ron, speechless.

"We're all fucking  _sick and tired_  of dealing with you, alright?"

_I'm sorry?_

"So just shut up and listen to Ginny. She's making a lot of sense. I think we should follow her plan."

He was so shocked that for a moment, all he could do was goggle at Ron.

_This isn't how it works._

_Ginny doesn't—_ she's _not supposed to—_

Then, the ball dropped.

_Why am I surprised?_

_I knew they had betrayed me already._

_They did that in the Hog's Head._

_Hermione did it in the forest._

_She set those lime green robes on me. They weren't for Malfoy at all._

_I_ know _the world has been turned upside down._

_So why does it keep surprising me?_

He brushed Ron's hand off. "How are you going to find them, then?"

Ginny fixed him with a look, and a little smile played across her lips. She shrugged easily and flipped her pony tail.

He noticed Neville watching her fixedly, like he couldn't take his eyes off her.

"We'll find them," she said, broadening the smile into a grin. "Don't you worry about that, Harry. Alright?"

"You and whose army?" He snapped. He wanted to walk away right now, but he was too irritated by her smiles and hair flips. "The Order's been dissolved, you know."

" _Whose army_?" She squealed, her eyes wide. She laughed, then. She laughed, throwing her head back and closing her eyes. Neville actually joined in, and his laugh was now gruff and booming. When she looked at him again, she was grinning bigger than ever. "Oh,  _Harry_. Where have you  _been_?"

_That's it._

This was all irrelevant. She would never be able to find any Death Eaters because she didn't have a former Death Eater to help her. She and—

_Wait…_

_Whose army…_

Did she mean…

_Dumbledore's Army?_

He looked at her and Neville, falling over each other with laughter.

And it hit him like a ton of bricks. It hit him like a dead dragon crashing through the roof of a house just not built to bear its weight. It hit him and it sat there on his mind, slowly sinking in, like Hogwarts castle disappearing into a bog.

_She's…_

_She's taken over Dumbledore's Army._

_They've taken over Dumbledore's Army._

Suddenly it all made sense. The way Dean and Seamus had deferred to Neville. The Head Boy's and Girl's rooms. The crowd of people in the Hog's Head. The bottle of Firewhiskey which Aberforth had sent to Neville. And—hadn't George said Aberforth sent three bottles?

_Twenty-year-aged Hogmanath Firewhiskey._

_What I wouldn't give for a dram of that._

_Aberforth sent three of those._

He suddenly had a sinister feeling that he knew who had received the third bottle. He stared at Ginny's swishing ponytail, her wicked smile which was directed, at this moment, at Neville.

"Dumbledore's Army—" he began, feeling the fury building in his veins, his voice building to a roar. "Is  _mine_.  _I_  started it.  _I_  trained all of you—"

"You weren't  _there_ , Harry," Ginny said loudly, staring at him. Neville's large hand was on her shoulder. Neville was looking at her as if he had eyes for no-one and nothing else. "You haven't  _been there_  for the past year."

Hermione had known. She knew Ginny and Neville were together. She had been secretly corresponding with Ginny. What else had she known?

Ron had left them and gone to stay with Bill and Fleur. What had they told him? Had they been in contact with Hogwarts? Had they plotted against him?

"Of course I wasn't  _there_!" He hissed. "I was—"

"Save it, Harry. We know." She said it in the same flat tone of voice. A voice which brooked no argument. "But somehow it was  _Neville_  who actually killed the old snake in the end."

He felt his jaw drop in shock.

"Ginny—!" Ron said, also sounding shocked.

_I'm the saviour of the wizarding world. I fought Voldemort for seven years. I was bitten, burned, cut, tortured, my body was possessed, my mind invaded. My parents were killed. I was sent to live with Muggles._

" _And_  you brought the DL and all the Death Eaters down on a school filled with innocent children," Ginny continued. "How clever was  _that_?"

_Shut up._

_Just shut up!_

"And half the wizarding world had to take care of your bloody business in the end, didn't they?" She continued. "It wasn't just you, Harry. It's  _never_  been just you."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" He said fiercely, gripping his wand tightly, longing to jinx her mouth shut.

"Oh yes I do! You  _don't know everything_ , Harry," She spat. "So stop playing the bleeding martyr already Harry, because nobody cares."

He looked at her, then Neville, then Ron.

_They're trying to get rid of me._

_They want…they want to replace me._

"Dumbledore chose me," he said, and it hurt his throat.

Ginny rolled her eyes and rubbed her face with her hands. "For Merlin's sake," she moaned, and then shouted: "You're  _not_   _that_   _bleeding special_ , Harry Potter!"

_Voldemort chose me._

He didn't say anything, just closed his eyes. Apparition took him, held him close, plunged him into the void.

_And you know what?_

_God damn all of you to hell._


	34. Thunder Road

**Draco**

It was dark between the hawthorn hedges.

_Potter's gone._

The sky overhead was clear, with a few big clouds proceeding across it against the stars, silvery-white where the moon touched them.

_Potter's gone._

The moon was full, he realised with a jolt.

_Oh, Sir…_

He stared at it, at the grey stains on its face.

_What do I do now?_

_Is Potter gone forever?_

_Has he gone back to the Light?_

He sighed and crossed his arms against the evening chill. It was a quiet and rather lovely late spring evening. The air smelled gorgeous, like moist earth and green plants.

_What do I do now, anyway?_

That moment just now in the car, when he thought Mum knew, when he thought she had figured out his lie, his secret. He'd felt a huge sense of relief. As if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. All of a sudden he'd felt…

_Free._

But she hadn't figured it out, she still thought everything he had been telling her for years was true, and he was back where he was before.

_Except she has closed the wards._

_For weeks—months._

_She can't check on me._

_She'll have no way of knowing what I'm doing._

_Free._

There was that feeling again, that weight being lifted.

_Sir, did you ever want to be free?_

_Did you ever not want the life you'd been given?_

_When your father told you what you would become, what did you think?_

But he knew the answer. Nothing had forced Sir to stay. Sir had chosen his life.

_And what about me…_

He felt freer, right now, right at this moment, with a breeze ruffling his hair and raising goosebumps on his arms, under the sliver stars, than perhaps he ever had before.

_Mum just wants things to be right._

_To be fair._

_She just wants Potter to know the truth._

_Give him a chance to decide for himself._

He'd never thought about it this way, never wanted to. It was easier to see Potter as hostile and arrogant. It was easier to resent his mother for her expectations of him. It was easier to hate himself for failing to live up to those expectations.

_If I can show Potter the truth…_

_If he understands…_

And at that exact moment, an image of Potter flashed through his mind. Potter was looking at him steadily, calmly.

_Potter, I can show you Truth._

_If you'll listen._

Maybe Sir had been right.

_That power lies within you. It's all down to you, kiddo._

He took another deep breath and smoothed his hands through his hair again and tucked his hair behind his ears again.

_I need to tell you, Potter._

_I want to show you, because it's not fair that they didn't tell you._

_It's not fair that they hid it from you._

_It's not fair what they did to your family…_

_Or to mine._

But Potter was gone, so maybe his chance was over. Maybe he'd blown it.

_Sir is gone._

_Mum and Dad aren't here._

_It's up to me…_

_The choice is mine._

He could go after Potter and try again, even if it meant being a prisoner of the Light. Maybe they would put him in prison. Maybe they would let him honour his life debt and stay with Potter.

_Oh, lucky, lucky me._

Facing Potter and his friends had always made his heart race, made his palms sweat, made his stomach twist in anxiety. That look on Potter's face when he saw him. The way Potter could go from easy, carefree, laughing one moment, and then, the moment he saw Draco Malfoy… 

That laughter would fade, disappear like water skittering off a hot pan. 

And Potter would look at him with this expression… this expression of  _disgust_. 

Disdain. Or, if he was very lucky, pity…

But maybe things could change. Just maybe.

_It's all down to you, kiddo._

Maybe, over time, little by little, he could gain Potter's trust.

_What do you think, Potter?_

He saw Potter again in his mind's eye. Potter extending a hand toward him, fingers brushing the side of his face, taking a lock of his hair and tucking it behind his ear. Potter's eyes lingering on his, green, deep, green, deep, and then straying to his face, ear, cheek, lips.

_Could it happen?_

His hand was resting on the bonnet of the car. It was still warm. He could get in this car and drive away. He knew the way to Heathrow.

_California._

California was waiting. It was a land of blue and gold, sky and sand. And orange and green, fruit and leaf. He'd wanted to go there with Potter, but that was never going to happen.

_I can just go there now._

He could leave it all behind. Leave the Malfoys, leave the Blacks. Mum and Sir had held him in a cage made of their love and their plans for him. He'd been a child who could only rebel silently, quietly, without admitting it. But now Sir was gone. And Mum…he closed his eyes, because it hurt. But Mum would get over the disappointment. Now she had a Black heir, so at least part of her plans had worked out.

_Dad…_

If he left, he didn't know what would happen to Dad. He didn't want to think about it, because he couldn't lose Dad as well as Sir.

_California._

He could be a new person, leave everything behind, family, tradition, heritage, expectation, magic, and the weight of this pain. He would leave it all behind.

_I want to be free._

_I don't want to be shackled._

He got in the car and started the engine.

_I can be free._

_I can._

_I love you Sir, Mum, Dad._

_I love you Potter._

_But I have to be free._

The car purred beneath him.

_Couple of hours to Heathrow._

_Red eye to L.A..._

He revved the engine once, twice—

"Malfoy…"

Abruptly he shut off the car.

"Malfoy….!"

_Potter._

He rolled down the window. It was only a brief time they'd had together, but he felt within him a certainty, twining, curling and twisting around his heart, that something had happened between him and Potter.

They could never go back to how they were before.

_Potter…_

"Malfoy!"

Had Potter been captured by the Light, was he shouting for help?

He stared this way and that, down the lonely road with only tarmac, and hawthorn towering above dark and impenetrable. Which direction was the voice coming from. It was almost impossible to tell.

He closed his eyes. And surely if magic was magic, it had the power to transport him to his soul's desire, to the one he lived for? He opened them again, started the car and accelerated down the narrow lane, pushing it, far faster than was safe, but he didn't care.

_I'll save you, Potter._

_I'm your sworn mage, after all._

_I'm yours, after all._

_I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours._

His vision had narrowed to black tarmac, two high rising hedge walls on either side, and high beams washing everything to white and grey.

A human figure appeared in the road ahead.

He braked with a long, screaming screech of tyres. The figure jumped out of the road and opened the passenger side door.

And he was staring at Potter, staring at him, the real flesh and blood Potter, like all his dreams had come true, and he wanted nothing more than to fall into Potter's arms and say, "Potter, Hecate, I thought I'd lost you."

"Get me the fuck out of here," Potter got into the car and slammed the door.

He needed no further encouragement.

He floored it.

_Thunder road._

_Sit tight._

_Take hold._

_Oh, oh, oh..._

_Thunder road._


	35. Infringement Of My Brilliance

**Harry**

"You lied."

Malfoy glanced at him. The car was barrelling down the long, straight, narrow lane.

"When we arrived at your house," he said. "You said the Death Eaters had left."

Malfoy braked, hard.

He flew forward and slammed his forehead into the windscreen.

_Argh!_

"Seatbelt," Malfoy muttered, negotiating a tight right-angle corner, then accelerating once more when they got onto the straight again.

He sat back in his seat, rubbing his nose.

_You don't even have a wand._

_Did you really think I was leading you to into a stately home full of bloodthirsty Death Eaters without so much as a wand?_

"'I swore an oath to protect your life', isn't that what you said?"

He didn't believe what Malfoy had said, of course. But Malfoy had made such a big deal out of it, he wanted to know how Malfoy was going to explain himself.

Malfoy glanced at him again, still driving fast. "Can we talk about this once we're safe?"

" _Safe._ " He sneered the word. "That's rich, coming from  _you_."

Malfoy let out a long sigh. "They found you again, didn't they?"

He rolled his eyes. "Who?"

"Your mates," Malfoy replied.

_We're all fucking sick and tired of dealing with you, alright?_

_You're not that bleeding special, Harry Potter!_

"They're not my mates," he muttered.

"See? Potter, they're tracking you. I don't know how—" Malfoy said quickly, seeing the look in his eye. "But they clearly are. So will you let me take you somewhere safe, where they can't find you?"

He frowned. "Wasn't that the reasoning behind going to your house? Sorry if I'm starting to doubt you when you tell me you have a "safe" place."

Malfoy pursed his lips. "Look, Potter, like I said, we really don't have time to talk about this right now. Being in the car will keep them off our trail for a while, but as soon as they cotton on they'll find a way to stop us."

He narrowed his eyes at Malfoy. There was something almost Hermione-like about Malfoy sometimes. A certain self-righteousness, like he just knew he was right and everyone else was an idiot.

"Look Malfoy," he said. "I'm tired. Alright? I've been through a lot in the past forty-eight hours and I've had barely any sleep. No thanks to you," he added. "So can we just get somewhere where that witch Ginny can't find me so I can get a good night's sleep already?"

Malfoy stared at him, mouth slightly ajar.

_What?_

_No, the Boy Who Lived Is Not Superhuman._

_Deal with it._

"Fine," Malfoy said tightly, and swung the car around so suddenly that he was thrown against the passenger door and cracked his head against the glass. Malfoy pulled into a small lay-by and parked the car.

"Jesus, Malfoy," he muttered, rubbing his head. "Do you always drive like a fucking madman?"

"Have you never heard of a seatbelt?" Malfoy muttered. "I thought you were raised by Muggles…"

_Auntie._

He was on top of Malfoy, one hand around his neck, the other pressing his wand into Malfoy's jaw. He leaned on Malfoy's neck. " _What_  did you say?"

Malfoy choked, his eyes staring at him, but otherwise remained still.

"Don't ever say that again. You don't talk to me like that."

Malfoy nodded, his eyes wide.

He let go, sat back in his seat.

Malfoy gasped, coughed, gulped in air. "Hecate wept," he whispered. "Potter, what is  _wrong_  with you?" His voice was louder now.

"Well, where is it?" He interrupted loudly.

"Where's what?" Malfoy replied harshly.

"Where are we going, Malfoy." He said it like a command, not a question.

All he heard in reply was a quiet word from Malfoy.

" _Revelio_."

He turned.

 _WHAT_.

Malfoy was sitting there, arms crossed across his chest, looking at him. Around Malfoy's neck, on a long silver chain, resting against Malfoy's t-shirt, was the Time Turner.

He felt his eyes widen in outrage. "Where did you get that?"

Malfoy just looked back at him coolly and said nothing.

"Well?" He asked. He racked his brains for an answer.

_Did Lucius Malfoy manage to steal it?_

_That night in the Department of Mysteries…?_

"Newsflash, Potter," Malfoy drawled. "Dumbledore wasn't the only wizard to own a Time Turner." The slightest hint of a smirk appeared at the corner of Malfoy's mouth.

Now that he looked closer at the Time Turner, he could see that it was larger than the one Hermione had used in third year. In fact, it was probably double the size. It was also a sort of gold colour, not silver.

"I have a safe place for us to go," Malfoy said. "And a safe  _time_."

He looked at Malfoy, considering his options.

_I have a wand now._

_What else do I need?_

The thought occurred to him that he didn't have much choice except to follow Malfoy.

_Yes I do._

_Of course I have a choice._

_And right now, using Malfoy is the best option._

"Okay," he said. "Let's go, then."

Malfoy closed his eyes briefly, looking incredibly relieved. "Okay," Malfoy said, starting to unwind the chain from around his neck and holding out a length of it to him.

He took the length of chain—luckily it was very long—and put it around his own neck.

"We'll just go back one day, to start, alright?"

"Why?" He asked sharply.

"Because we need to do a longer jump, and I don't want half of Dumbledore's Army coming down on my head while I'm trying to count."

"Fine."

"Okay, I'm doing it now," Malfoy said, and picked up the Time Turner.

_Merlin._

_This is just…_

Here he was, sharing a Time Turner with the bookies' pick for Young Death Eater of the Year 1998.

_How is this fair?_

His reward for surviving death and slaying the most feared dark wizard since Grindelwald was to find out his girlfriend had left him for a complete anorak and, to top it off, taken over his duelling club.

Slaying Voldemort was supposed to take care of everything. It was supposed to make everything right. Once Voldemort was dead, everything else would fall into place.

_At least, that's what I thought._

He thought of that horrible nightmare he'd had after he went to bed in Gryffindor Tower after the battle. It had started out as a picture-perfect vision of a future life. He hadn't even consciously realised it, but that was his assumption of what would happen if he could just kill Voldemort.

There would be peace.

They would marry each other.

They would have kids.

It was the route to a happy, normal life…

_Isn't it?_

He could still remember the moment in the dream when everything had changed. When he'd realised his wife was not Ginny, but a reflection of his mother. When he'd realised these children were not his children, they were just reflections of his own parents as children. Reflections of himself as a child. A little boy, alone, scared…

_Auntie._

He shuddered involuntarily. It had been a moment of lucid terror. He'd become aware that it was a dream, but it had also seemed terrifyingly real.

_Barney Weasley was there, wasn't he?_

Hidden. Unseen. But there. Just there, on the edge of perception, like something just out of frame in a horror film.

_Everyone hates Barney Weasley, the squib._

"Potter."

In some ways he felt as if he had never woken up from that nightmare, as if he would never wake up from it.

_Don't you get it, Harry?_

"Potter."

_It's always been this way._

_It's not_ reality _that has changed, Harry._

 _It's_ you _._

"Potter!"

Malfoy was waving a hand in front of his eyes. He slapped the hand away irritably. "Bugger off," he muttered, annoyed.

Malfoy lay down in the grass and muttered, "Right, whatever, Potter."

_Grass?_

He looked around and realised he was sitting in the grass in the lay-by, still surrounded by those high hedges. "What—"

"The car didn't come with us," Malfoy said by way of explanation. "So here we are. It's twenty four hours ago. We're safe now." Malfoy gave a huge yawn. "Hecate's teeth, I'm shattered."

He found himself yawning as well, a yawn so big it nearly took his head off. He was exhausted.

_I can't sleep though._

_What if I have that nightmare again?_

He remembered that he'd had another nightmare when he'd been asleep at Malfoy Manor and realised that he'd been trying to remember it, when he was thinking about the previous nightmare. Hunting in that first nightmare for clues…

_Don't think about it._

_It's just a stupid nightmare._

_Stop thinking about it—now!_

_Auntie._

He stood up quickly and started doing jumping jacks to clear his head. "Come on," he said to Malfoy, and started jogging down the lane. He was feeling better.

Malfoy groaned, dragging himself into a standing position and following him. "Exercise? Ugh, Potter, you are such a Gryffindor."

He laughed. "Too bloody right!" He jumped around a bit more and punched the air. The sight of Malfoy slumping along, bleary-eyed, just made him feel more energetic. "Woo! How about a rousing chorus of 'Potter Is Our King?'"

"Oh, Hecate's hump," Malfoy said. "'Potter Is Our King'? Is that what they were singing in Gryffindor Tower this morning? You'll be hearing from my solicitor for brazen and nauseating infringement of my brilliance."

He laughed.

"Oh, the sick-making  _shame_  of it," Malfoy went on, clearly enjoying himself. "Did they lift you up on their shoulders and everything?"

He turned around, walking backwards, and nodded and grinned at Malfoy. "You better believe it. I  _am_  their King."

"Urhghggh," Malfoy mimed vomiting.

He laughed, and then Malfoy burst out laughing as well, looking at him, and grinning.

_He's smiling at me._

And he realised he was smiling back at Malfoy. That was enough to wipe the smile off his face.

_Weird._

_That's just weird._

He felt uncomfortable suddenly, and turned back around again and kept walking. "So when did you say this was, again?"

"Last night at the same time. I guess it's about 2am now."

He stopped. "So the Battle of Hogwarts is going on now?"

Malfoy caught up to him. "Yes, I think that's about right."

He frowned. "So how am I safe? Volde—"

Malfoy pressed his hand over his mouth. He leaped backward, pushing Malfoy's hand away and wiping his mouth his his hand.

"Ugh! Why did you do that—"

"For Hecate's sake, have you lost your mind?" Malfoy hissed. " The taboo, it's still active. Don't say the name!"

"Yeah, okay, I feel really safe right now, thanks, Malfoy!" He retorted. "What is this, part of your plan to get me killed a second time by Volde—"

" _Petrificus os_!"

"Mm!" His lips were sealed shut. He couldn't say a word.

"Did you swap your brains for frogspawn this morning, Potter?" Malfoy hissed, his wand still raised. "What in Hecate's sweet name is wrong with you?"

He took his own wand out and poked it at his mouth, but with his lips sealed he couldn't do anything about the spell. He hadn't done much to try learning wordless magic. He usually left that sort of thing to Hermione.

"Mmm!" He growled at Malfoy, pointing at his mouth.

Malfoy shook his head. "No. I think I'm going to leave that on for a bit, since you clearly can't control yourself enough to even save your own skin. Hecate wept!" Malfoy gestured at him to follow and kept walking down the path. "Come on."

He didn't budge.

Malfoy turned back and gave him a look. "Oh, you're sulking now? Look, we're relatively safe here for the moment so long as you don't do anything  _stupid_  like  _saying the Reptile's name_. No-one is going to be looking for you here. Now, like I told you, we need to do a longer jump back in time. So let's find a quiet place where I can do that and where we won't be disturbed by any cars or passersby. Okay?"

He stared mutinously at Malfoy, folded his arms over his chest and didn't move.

Malfoy rolled his eyes hugely and let out a sigh like he was going for gold in competitive Kneazle herding. Finally he pursed his lips, raised his wand and pointed it at him. "Finite incantatem."

He took a deep breath through his mouth. "Thanks," he said sarcastically, walking slowly toward Malfoy. "Now I understand why you were so popular at Hogwarts. Is this what you did whenever you wanted to get someone to listen to your lectures about how to get a shiny thick coat of ferret fur?"

Malfoy replied with a venomous look, which was not very effective as he cracked up while doing it. "Actually," he said, and tossed his head. His hair, fine as cornsilk, caught the moonlight like a silver curtain. "The results speak for themselves. And do you  _really_  think you can talk to  _me_  on the subject of personal grooming?" Malfoy shot him an up-and-down look from the top of the sty he had climbed up on.

He knew he looked a fright. His eyes were still puffy and his hair was a rat's nest as he hadn't combed it after showering. He raised his eyebrows. "Malfoy, I don't spend all day primping and tarting myself up. I'm not a  _girl_."

The mischievous light in Malfoy's eyes went out all of a sudden. He turned abruptly away and jumped down from the sty, disappearing into the darkness of the field on the other side.

He followed, climbing up on the sty awkwardly and jumping off the top only to land in mud.

_Well, I don't actually care what I look like._

He squelched over to where Malfoy had lit a low light on the end of his wand.

"So," he said into the silence, feeling a little awkward. "What now?"

"There's nothing  _wrong_  with being a girl, you do know that, Potter?" Malfoy was looking at him through the wand light. Malfoy's eyes were glowing silver around two burning black spots which wouldn't look away from him.

He shook his head. "Uh. I know that, Malfoy. One of my best friends is a girl?"

"There's nothing wrong with being  _like_  a girl, either." Malfoy just kept looking at him. His gaze was strong, but his voice was brittle.

_What is going on?_

He felt incredibly uncomfortable, and had an actual physical urge to turn and run.

"Uh," he said. "So the plan…"

"I know I'm feminine," Malfoy said.

_Okay_

_I'm leaving._

He tried to, but for some reason he couldn't make his feet move. 

And Malfoy just kept talking.

"I'm sure you know what they've been saying about me at Hogwarts," Malfoy continued.

_Er… no?_

He felt compelled to speak, he didn't know why. "Er," he said. "They say that you're … a pureblood rah and probably a Death Eater?"

He met Malfoy's eyes and quickly looked away again.

"I keep forgetting you don't know anything about last year," Malfoy sighed.

_Why does everyone keep saying that?_

"I used to hide it," Malfoy said. "But last summer I decided to… dispense with the bullshit. On  _that_  front, at least," Malfoy muttered. "I'll wear my hair like I  _want_. I'll wear  _what_  I want."

"Well," he said gruffly. He felt deeply embarrassed, but somehow he felt he had to say something. "I haven't noticed anything different."

Malfoy cocked his head to the side and looked at him. "No," he said. "But you're not very observant, are you? And let's face it, you never gave me the time of day until you suspected me of being a Death Eater."

_I…_

He supposed Malfoy was right. He'd certainly tried to  _avoid_  Malfoy most of the time before sixth year. But avoiding Malfoy at Hogwarts was like getting through a field without getting your socks covered in cockleburs. Malfoy had been the _king_ of other people's business.

Well, the king of _Harry Potter's_  business, at least…

"What, er," he asked. "What were they saying about you at Hogwarts?"

Malfoy looked back at him a little longer. Sheltered in the deep shadow of the hawthorn hedge, lit only by the dim circle of wand light, Malfoy looked elfin—

_He looks--_

Had something changed about Malfoy? He was looking now, trying to figure it out.

_Are there male Veela?_

Malfoy dropped his gaze, and he noticed Malfoy was blushing. "I never repeat gossip," Malfoy said, with a small smile which did not fit the tone of his voice.

"What—what  _happened_  last year?" He asked suddenly.

Malfoy's eyes flashed, alarmed.

"I mean—" he said quickly. "What happened at Hogwarts? In general, not just, er, to you—Ginny—" he said, trying to explain. "Neville. I don't… I don't understand."

It was weird, but he felt like Malfoy would tell him the truth.

Malfoy looked at him for quite a long time, as if he was trying to make sure he wasn't joking or making fun of him. Then he sat down in the grass. 

"What do you know?" Malfoy asked.


	36. Precious Object

**Draco**

_He’s teasing—_

“Actually, the results speak for themselves.” He posed a little, perched on top of the sty, looked back at Potter, flipped his hair. 

Potter was standing there, looking adorably tousled, laughter in his eyes. 

_Is he—flirting?_

He gave Potter the once-over, and probably just the smallest hint of a smile. “And do you really think you can talk to me on the subject of personal grooming?”

_Am I?_

But something changed in Potter’s expression. 

“Malfoy, I don’t spend all day primping and tarting myself up. I’m not a  _girl_.” Potter’s tone had gone from teasing to annoyed, ending with a note of derision when he said ‘girl’. Potter’s eyes had gone hard and his jaw was clenched.  

 _Well, that’s_ my _bubble popped._  

He cursed himself for the way his heart was sinking. 

_Hecate, I’m a fool…_

He could just feel the corners of his mouth pulling downward and he turned away and climbed over the sty into the field and walked off into the shadow of the hedge. 

_I should have known better._

He ran a hand through his hair. 

_No._

_Hang on._

He forced himself to take out his wand and cast Lumos. 

_This conversation…_

_Needs to be had._

_If this is the time, so be it._

He heard Potter climbing over the sty after him and landing in the field. 

His heart was starting to beat faster. He tried to take a deep breath, but choked instead. 

“So,” Potter’s voice drifted toward him. “What now?” 

Potter sounded totally nonchalant, like he wasn’t even aware of what he had just said. 

 _I’m not a_ girl _._

His face was hot. Before he could take the words back, his voice spoke. “There’s nothing  _wrong_  with being a girl, you do  _know_  that, Potter?” 

Potter came closer, so he could see his expression in the dim light of his Lumos.

“Uh,” Potter sounded taken aback. “I know that, Malfoy. One of my best friends is a girl?” 

_I don’t spend all day primping and tarting myself up._

“There’s nothing wrong with being  _like_  a girl, either,” he forced himself to speak, forced himself to not be embarrassed to be standing up and saying this to Harry Potter.

“Uh,” Potter’s voice was detached, avoidant. “So the plan…” He might as well be off floating around Jupiter. 

_Listen to me, for Hecate’s sake._

_Don’t try to—_

_Try to erase me._

He could feel the embarrassment radiating from Potter. He could feel the shame. He knew Potter was feeling it. 

Because even he was still fighting his own shame. 

About who he was. 

“I know I’m feminine.”

He might as well have dropped a hydrogen bomb. The word seemed to take physical presence in the night. 

Potter visibly staggered. 

Potter seemed rooted to the spot, staring at him. 

_I said it._

_It’s out there._

Potter was still standing there rigidly, barely even blinking. 

_And yes, what you’ve heard is correct._

_I_ do _like you._

_Although I would prefer you didn’t find out in that way._

_I would prefer you didn’t find out at all…_

“I’m sure you know what they’ve been saying about me at Hogwarts,” he said, feeling calmer, but still inwardly tensed—tensed for laughter, tensed for mockery, tensed to relive the humiliation.  

“Er,” Potter said finally. “They say that you’re … an arrogant rah and probably a Death Eater?”

_Wait…_

Potter met his eyes, then looked away again. That glance surprised him. It was open, curious, even… 

Potter was listening.

“I keep forgetting you don’t know anything about last year. I used to hide it,” he said. “But last summer I decided to… dispense with the bullshit. On that front, at least,” he muttered. “I’ll wear my hair like I want. I’ll wear what I want.” 

He stopped talking, because he was starting to feel that a spell had descended on the night, and if he talked too much, it would break. 

_He’s there._

Here he was under the shadow of the hawthorn, the only light coming from his Lumos, and a little from the moon. And he was just standing here, talking to Potter a few feet away. 

 _He’s listening._  

 _He… sees me._  

“Well,” Potter said, a little awkwardly, “I haven’t noticed anything different.” 

He almost smiled, but the moment was too fragile. A smile could shatter it. 

 “No,” he said. “But you’re not very observant, are you? And let’s face it, you never gave me the time of day until you suspected me of being a Death Eater.” 

“What, er,” Potter asked. “What were they saying about you at Hogwarts?” 

Potter was looking at him, and Potter had never looked at him like this before. In the wand light, Potter’s eyes were glowing like two emeralds lit from within by divine fire. 

_Hecate._

He felt breathless, and his cheeks were getting hot. He felt exposed, vulnerable, but somehow he was not afraid. He found that he trusted Potter. “I never repeat gossip,” he said, trying weakly for flippant irony, which failed completely.  

“What—what happened last year?” Potter asked suddenly.

_What?_

He gasped, felt his heart contracting like a flower in reverse bloom, closing in on itself. 

“I mean—” Potter started stammering, looking mortified. “What happened at Hogwarts? In general, not just, er, to you—Ginny—” he said, trying to explain. “Neville. I don’t… I don’t understand.” 

He met Potter’s eyes and he felt his heart start to fill with an indescribable tenderness. If it overflowed, he might cry. 

_I mustn’t break this spell._

The night enveloped them. The scent of wildflowers came to him on the slight breeze. 

_Gently, Draco…_

_Carefully…_

He sat down on the grass, looked up at Potter and said, “What do you know?”

Potter sat down in the grass a few feet away. “Not much,” he shrugged. 

He realised that they were both almost whispering, as if they were both afraid of breaking the spell. 

Potter tugged on some grass blades. “I broke up with Ginny last summer,” he said. “And I come back, and she’s taken over… Dumbledore’s Army, Malfoy.” Potter looked at him. His eyes were wide and confused. “She took over.” 

He nodded. “Yes. I know.” 

Potter shook his head. “How? How come you know and I don’t?” 

“Did you keep in touch with Weasley?” He asked. “While you were…away? Did you keep in touch with any of them?” 

Potter shook his head, his eyes open wide. “No. No, I didn’t.” 

He stared at Potter. “Why not?” 

“It was too dangerous. And I couldn’t tell them what I was doing. And…” Potter trailed off, plucking grass. 

“Potter,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if I should be the one telling you this, but… Dumbledore’s Army thought you had… abandoned them.” 

Potter looked completely taken aback. “Abandoned? They’re… they’re  _mine_. It’s my group, Malfoy, you know,  _I_  set it up.” 

He spread his hands. “I don’t know all the details. But that was well known around school. They felt betrayed. Like you had deserted. There were a lot of rumours about what they were doing, but…”

“What,” Potter said. “Tell me.” 

He pursed his lips. “They were planning to slay the Reptile,” he said carefully, eliciting a gasp from Potter. There was no easy way to say the next part. “Look, Potter. Weasley is—she’s  _influential_. They’ve already got a lot of allegiance from young people in the Light. Not just in Hogwarts.” 

He remembered how full the Hog’s Head had been, when Potter had been captured. 

Potter frowned. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, allegiance?” 

“Dumbledore’s Army has grown beyond Hogwarts, Potter.  _Way_  beyond.”

Potter was gazing at him. 

The delicate spell of understanding between them, so unexpected, so rare, was fragile. One false move by him—if he put one foot wrong, it would burst. 

Bubbles burst when they grew too large. 

“They’re organised. They have resources. And they’re very determined.” 

Maybe this bubble had its limits—

A revelation too immense would tip the scales into mistrust, disbelief, anger—

He found himself tensed, waiting, barely breathing, looking at Potter, waiting for his reaction. 

“Whose army..." Potter muttered. "Ginny said they were going after the Death Eaters,” he mumbled. “I said, ‘you and whose army?’…” 

“Dumbledore’s Army are going after the Death Eaters?” He breathed, and suddenly his heart rate was sky rocketing, he was feeling in his pocket for his mobile phone and his mind was racing. 

Then he remembered that there was no way to call Mum. She was at Malfoy Manor behind closed wards, and she couldn’t help him. 

He tried to remain outwardly calm, to not burst the bubble, but Potter’s eyes were on him, flickering around his face. Potter had clearly realised there was something wrong. 

“What?” Potter said. 

“Er,” he said. “I’m just…surprised to learn they are going after the Death Eaters as well.” 

“That was my idea,” Potter said flatly, staring out into space. “I thought of that. None of them cared.” 

He looked at Potter and felt his heart start to ache. 

_This love, this love for Potter…_

He thought about the expression on Potter’s face earlier, the hostility he’d glimpsed in his face. 

Sir’s angry words came back to him. 

 _What makes you think Harry even_ likes _boys?_

He shook his head. 

_Nothing, Sir._

_Nothing at all._

Unrequited love. One-sided, unreciprocated love— it existed nowhere except in the mind of the lover. Unrequited love was like creating a beautiful object. Like a Faberge egg, or an exquisite diamond bracelet. Something you poured your heart into until you had created a very, very beautiful and much-loved object.

Potter was plucking blades of grass from the ground.

But because the object of unrequited love had no part in the creation of the object, there was something wrong. The lover had no right to create this object. The lover had no permission to own it. And because of these transgressions, the lover’s object became cursed. The lover’s most precious possession became a curse upon their heart, their mind, their life. 

Potter added the grass to the pile he had created.

The more love lavished upon the precious object, the longer the lover refused to give it up, the more the lover treasured its beauty and uniqueness, the more it poisoned the lover’s heart. 

He watched Potter reshape the pile, moulding it into a high peak, flattening it out. 

_Is that what Potter feels for Ginevra Weasley?_

_Because that's what I feel for Potter._

At some point—his love for Potter was not going to be love any more.

And it was going to start poisoning him from the inside out. 

He couldn’t look away from Potter. 

He loved him so much. 

And one day, he would have to take the precious object in his mind which was his love for Potter, take it carefully, gingerly out, and with considered, knowing blows, smash the damn thing to pieces.


	37. Deserted

**Harry**

The wand lay in the grass between them, still glowing gently. Malfoy sat opposite him. He could tell that Malfoy was listening, giving him his full attention.

It seemed like there was nothing stirring in the world.

"Did you keep in touch with any of them?" Malfoy asked softly, as if he didn't want to disturb the quiet atmosphere.

"No," he said, running fingers through the grass. "No, I didn't."

_Of course I didn't…_

"Why not?" Malfoy's were open wide.

"It was too dangerous. And I couldn't tell them what I was doing. And…"

It was hard to explain, but that was what he'd had to do. His mission to find the Horcruxes had been his own thing, separate from Hogwarts. It was his own lonely road, filled with danger, confusion and pain. Only he could walk that road. He couldn't get anyone else involved.

_Dumbledore chose me…_

"Potter," Malfoy said. "I don't know if I should be the one telling you this, but… Dumbledore's Army thought you had… abandoned them."

" _Abandoned_? They're… they're mine. It's  _my_  group, Malfoy, you know,  _I_  set it up."

 _I didn't even_ want _to be the leader._

 _They_ asked _me to_.

Malfoy spread his hands. "I don't know all the details. But that was well known around school. They felt betrayed. Like you had deserted. There were a lot of rumours about what they were doing, but…"

"What?" He said. "Tell me."

Malfoy looked at him, then away, and spoke hesitantly, as if he didn't want to have to tell him. "They were planning to slay the Reptile," he said.

_What?!_

Ginny's words echoed in his mind.

_Somehow it was Neville who actually killed the old snake in the end._

He felt nauseous.

_This is how they pay back my sacrifice?_

"Look, Potter. Weasley is—she's  _influential_. They've already got a lot of allegiance from young people in the Light. Not just in Hogwarts."

_Influential?_

_What does that mean?_

He stared at Malfoy in disbelief. "What do you mean, allegiance?"

The image arose in his mind all of a sudden, of that morning in the common room, Shacklebolt standing there surrounded by a whole group of people. People who all stopped talking when he approached…

And then in the Hog's Head… the whole pub had been full. He hadn't even recognised all of the people who had shown up.

"Dumbledore's Army has grown beyond Hogwarts, Potter. Way beyond. They're organised. They have resources. And they're—they're determined."

_You're not that bleeding special, Harry Potter!_

_It wasn't just_ you _, Harry. It's never been just_ you _._

"Whose army," he muttered to himself, pulling up cool and soft blades of grass and making them into a pile. "Ginny said they were going after the Death Eaters. I said, 'you and whose army?'…"

"Dumbledore's Army are going after the Death Eaters?" Malfoy's voice had changed. It was louder, sharper, and though he quickly lowered it again, he couldn't hide his initial reaction.

"What?"

"Er," Malfoy said after a moment. "I'm just…surprised to learn they are going after the Death Eaters as well."

_No, that's not everything._

He could tell Malfoy wasn't being totally open.

_Well, who am I kidding?_

_I can't trust Malfoy farther than I can throw him._

"That was my idea," he muttered, more to himself than to Malfoy. "I thought of that. None of them cared."

The homesick feeling he'd had during the argument with Ron, Ginny and Neville was returning.

_I'm homeless._

_And my friends have all turned against me._

It was a desolate feeling. Once more he felt like a small child alone and scared at night.

_Auntie—_

_Where are you?_

He forced the thought down. He must  _never_  think of that.

"What else do you know, Malfoy?" He asked, not bothering to keep his voice quiet any longer. "So far you've told me they felt abandoned. Well, Hermione told me that yesterday."

Malfoy was looking at him silently. Then Malfoy dropped his gaze, ran his hand through his hair, and stood up and walked away a few paces, standing with his back to him.

Well, she'd said  _Ginny_  felt abandoned. He'd pretty much dismissed the comment as whining, but…

"And you told me they wanted to kill V—"

Malfoy whirled around, his eyes flashing in alarm.

"You Know Who," he corrected himself. "Well, of course they did," he stood up so he was eye level with Malfoy. "Everyone wanted to do that. But I was the only one who was actually able to. They literally couldn't, they didn't know the first thing about—"

He saw the interested glint in Malfoy's eye.

_Shut up._

_You're going to say too much about the Horcruxes._

"—how to do that," he finished quickly. "So at this point, you've told me basically nothing I didn't already know. I  _know_  they stole the sword of Gryffindor from Snape's office, but that turned out to be a fake. I  _know_  they were making trouble for the Carrows and Snape all of last year. I  _knew_  the DA were still active. That's great. I would never want the DA shut down. That's why we formed the DA, to stand up to--you know, bad people coming into Hogwarts. I  _knew_  Ginny and Neville were involved, of course they were. When I got to Hogwarts last night, they were there to  _help_  me."

Malfoy frowned at him. "What are you trying to say?"

"I started Dumbledore's Army. Maybe Ginny took over for a little while, but eventually she'll realise she was wrong and everything will go back to how it was before. You know, this thing with Neville won't last. I'm sure we'll get back together soon. Besides, now we've all left school, we won't be at Hogwarts any more, and there'll be no more need for the DA."

Malfoy was staring at him open-mouthed.

"I can see you don't believe me, but I  _know_  them. They're my  _friends_. Like the whole situation at the Hog's Head. Come on. It was obviously a big misunderstanding. Why would my friends be imprisoning me like I was a criminal or something?"

"I was asking myself the very same question," Malfoy said. Under the moonlight, his eyes and hair were shining brightly silver.

At Hogwarts, Malfoy had never had a reputation for being particularly good-looking. He wasn't Cedric Diggory or anything. But looking at Malfoy now, he could see that Malfoy did look different. He couldn't put his finger on what it was exactly. No one feature—eyes, nose, mouth—looked any different.

_But he does look different._

There was no other word for it… Malfoy looked pretty.

_As pretty as a Veela._

_Until he loses his hair when he gets to middle age, that is…_

"And  _let's face it_ ," he said sarcastically, echoing Malfoy's earlier comment, "who do you  _think_  I'm going to believe? A failed Death Eater looking for protection or the people who actually stand up to evil when it's in front of them?"

Malfoy threw up his hands. "You clearly don't want to hear any more. It's your life. As you said, they're your friends."

"Exactly," he said.

_And I know they wouldn't betray me like this._

_This is all going to blow over._

_It has to._

It had to turn out like his dream—the good part of the dream, before it turned into a nightmare. His vision of the future. He remembered, now, how many years had passed in the dream. It was a weirdly specific number— 19. 19 years later.

_That's what I want._

_I want that future to come true._

Malfoy fumbling in his pocket, taking out the Time Turner and untangling the immensely long silver chain. "So," Malfoy drawled, not meeting his eyes. "I'll just take you back, then?"

"Back?" He was confused. "Didn't you say something about a … long jump, or something?"

Malfoy looked up. He was winding the silver chain carefully around his neck. "Oh, but  _surely_ , Potter," he said, and his tone was dangerously dry. "You don't want to spend any more time with a _failed Death Eater_. Especially not an incredibly  _girly_  one like me."

_Just what I need right now._

_Malfoy's put his clever clogs on._

He didn't dignify Malfoy with a reply, just gave him a disgusted look.

"You're hunting Death Eaters," Malfoy said. "Now Dumbledore's Army are hunting Death Eaters too. You just told me Dumbledore's Army are your best friends ever.  _What are you doing_   _here with me_?"

Malfoy's eyes bored into him.

He thought of how Veela turned into ugly, screeching birds.

"You know," he said. "I had this dream. It was like a vision of the future. And guess what? You're going to go bald."

Malfoy stared at him for a moment and then let out a shriek of laughter. Malfoy doubled over, his whole torso shaking with silent laughter. 

"Why are you laughing?" He said, annoyed. 

Malfoy straightened up, wheezed, and burst into laughter again, his face bright pink.

"Stop!" He shouted. "Stop  _fucking laughing--_ "

_Dumbledore's Army are hunting Death Eaters._

An image formed in his mind of Ginny, standing on a podium in the Ministry of Magic Atrium, beside the Fountain of Magical Brethren. In front of the podium was a row of photographers, snapping away frantically. The Atrium was filled with a huge crowd of people, all cheering and crying and waving copies of the Daily Prophet emblazoned with Ginny's face.

_What are you doing here with me?_

Malfoy was still giggling uncontrollably. "Bald!" He gasped every now and again.

In his mind's eye, the Minister for Magic climbed a series of steps up to the podium and started shaking Ginny's hand and pinned a medal on her robes. Kinglsey Shacklebolt appeared and announced that Ginny had been invited to join the Auror force, and was the youngest witch or wizard to receive this honour.

_Ginny Weasley, Death Eater Hunter._

_Ginny Weasley, Superstar Auror._

_Somehow… I don't think so._

He adjusted his mental image slightly, and then it was him standing on that podium, being honoured for capturing dozens of Death Eaters and filling Azkaban prison once more. Ginny was in the crowd, clapping politely.

"Oh my Hecate," Malfoy wiped tears from his face. "Oh, thanks for that, Potter. Hecate wept, that was good. Oh my, phew!"

"So..." he said slowly to Malfoy. "You want me to go."

Malfoy was still wiping his face and rearranging his hair, but he stopped when he heard this. "Oh, what gave you that impression, sweetheart?" Malfoy looked at him wide-eyed, then flung his arms around his chest and hugged himself tightly. "Never leave me!" Then he burst into laughter again.

_Sweetheart._

No-one called him sweetheart.

_No-one, except…_

Stop that thought right there.

He must  _never_  think of that.

"Well,  _you'll_  be coming  _with me_ , right? To join the DA?" He said to Malfoy, who had finally stopped laughing. "I mean, I  _did_  save your life twice. What was that Debby vitay thing you kept harping on about? Didn't you say you had to be my bodyguard and protect me from the bad wizards who might try to hurt me?"

"Potter," Malfoy drawled, "I would rather learn how to ride side-saddle on a  _Blast-Ended Skrewt_  than spend another five minutes in the company of your so-called friends."

"Oh, so I guess you'll just be breaking your vow, then," he said. He studied his fingernails casually. "That's all I expected of you, to be honest."

Malfoy rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, as a  _failed Death Eater_  I break vows along with my bread for breakfast, Potter. It goes so well with a nice warm cup of blood of the innocents."

He almost laughed, but turned it into a disdainful frown just in time.

Malfoy flashed him a disapproving look, but the corner of his mouth was quirked. "And I'd like to see you find a Death Eater without my help. A pack of Gryffindors blundering around Britain looking for Servants? You couldn't find your own arse if it had been put on the front instead of the back."

"So you will come?" He said, smiling now.

The trace of a smirk had disappeared Malfoy's face. Malfoy shook his head slightly as he looked at him. "A life debt is easily dissolved, Potter. It's considered deeply dishonourable, but it's easily done."

"Er…" He hadn't been expecting that.

"All that needs to occur," Malfoy said looking at him steadily. "Is for the debt to be forgiven."

The breeze had picked up and it was blowing Malfoy's hair around. It blew into his eyes and he reached up and pushed it away, tucking it behind his ear.

"Where's your Mark?"

Malfoy retracted his arm like he'd been burned, then hid it out of sight behind his back.

_All that needs to occur_

_is for the debt to be forgiven_

"I glamour it," Malfoy muttered.

"Why?"

"Because I can't stand the sight of it, and it's that or rip my own eyes out," Malfoy snapped. "Alright? Now can you just make a decision about what you want to do? I don't want to spend the whole night in this field and I'm fucking exhausted."

"This safe place you mentioned," he said. "How do I know it's really safe?"

Malfoy put his hands over his face and howled. "I don't know! Pick a reason! Just let me go home and sleep, for the love of Hecate!"

"Before," he pressed on, "when we went to your house, you said it was safe and there were no Death Eaters there. So how do you explain Lucius Malfoy popping up like that? And if you're supposed to be helping me find Death Eaters, why didn't you let me arrest him?"

Malfoy dragged his hands away from his face. "You’re killing me with this unforgiving hardline interrogation." Malfoy really did look tired now. "My parents were… planning to leave the country, which is what all the other Servants are doing. I thought we would have the place to ourselves. But they came home unexpectedly. And I didn’t want them to see you. They wouldn’t exactly approve of me helping you to track down the other Death Eaters…."

"So—wait—" he said. "Were you trying to… sneak me out of the house? Telling me to be quiet and everything?" He almost felt like laughing.

Malfoy glared at him.

He did laugh, then. "You are the worst Death Eater  _ever_."

Malfoy frowned at him, then gave him a strange sort of smile. "Thanks, Potter."

_Yes, Malfoy is one fucked-up wizard._

He understood that the Malfoys were acting in their own self-interest.

_I guess that's sort of the definition of what a Malfoy is._

It didn't exonerate them, or mean they shouldn't face justice for their crimes and probably serve at least some time in prison—but he understood their motivation.

"So," he said. "I guess I'm reasonably sure, now, that you're not trying to kill me."

Malfoy looked at him for a second, and then burst out laughing.

He did too, although he didn't know why.

"It only took until now, did it?" Malfoy said. "Well, thank Hecate you aren't Mad-Eye Moody."

Somehow this set them both off laughing again.

In a field— in the middle of the night— yesterday—laughing— with Draco Malfoy.

_Merlin._

_How did this happen?_


	38. Safe House

**Draco**

He frowned at Potter. “What are you trying to say?”

The magic spell was broken. It had shattered right around the time he’d started thinking about having to force himself to get over Potter. When Potter mentioned getting back together with Weasley, he felt like the life force was starting to drain from his body and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and stay there for a very, very long time. 

_Ugh._

He was tired and he was getting a headache. Potter had stopped listening, and now he could see Potter talking himself out of believing him at all. 

“Why would my friends be imprisoning me like I was a criminal or something?” 

“I was asking myself the very same question,” he said pointedly. 

Potter ignored this and ploughed on, as if determined to erase everything that had just gone between them. 

“And let’s face it—” Potter said. “Who do you think I’m going to believe? A failed Death Eater looking for protection or the people who actually stand up to evil when it’s in front of them?” 

_Well, if I’m not the biggest fool this side of Hogsmeade…_

He knew a slap in the face when he saw it. Even if it felt more like a lance to the heart. 

He threw up his hands. “You clearly don’t want to hear any more,” he said, trying to feel righteous and exasperated, and failing. “It’s your life. As you said, they’re your friends.” 

“Exactly,” Potter said, sounding entirely satisfied. 

_Well, that’s fantastic, Potter._

_I’m so glad to hear it’s all going to work out._

Like a wizard standing on his mahogany floor realising he’d cast a quicksand curse instead of a polishing charm, he recognised that sinking feeling. 

_Of course Potter’s going to go back to his friends._

_Arrest a bunch of Death Eaters._

_Become a hero, yet again._

_Marry some Gryffindor._

_Live happily ever after._

_Isn’t that just how it goes?_

And yet… there had to be a reason Potter had been standing in the road in the middle of the night, shouting his name. 

_Get me the fuck out of here._

_They’re not my mates._

Potter had fallen out badly with his friends, that was clear. 

_We won’t be at Hogwarts any more, and there’ll be no more need for the DA._

But what Potter didn’t grasp—what he was actually  _refusing_  to grasp—was that that the goalposts had moved. Potter wanted to believe that Dumbledore’s Army was for—how had Potter phrased it? ‘Standing up to bad people coming into Hogwarts’. 

_He slayed the Reptile but he still sees the world like a first year._

If what Potter had said was true, his mother’s and Sir’s suspicions about Dumbledore’s Army looked more and more plausible. 

_A sinister development._

_That’s what mum would call it._

There was no point trying to argue with Potter about it any further. Until Potter wanted to know, there was no telling him. 

_Time to call Boy Wonder’s bluff._

_Let’s see how he likes a taste of his own potion._

He reached into his pocket, took out the Time Turner and started untangling its long silver chain. “So,” he said. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to hop back to tomorrow, then?” 

“Tomorrow?” Potter was looking at him with his best innocent confused puppy expression. “Didn’t you say something about a … long jump, or something?”

“Oh, but  _surely_ , Potter, you don’t want to spend any more time with a  _failed Death Eater_. Especially not an incredibly  _girly_  one like me.” 

Potter was scowling at him as if sarcasm made his knackers break out in massively itchy hives.

“You’re  _hunting Death Eaters_ ,” he said slowly, as if explaining something to a dim-witted child. “Now Dumbledore’s Army are hunting Death Eaters too. You just told me Dumbledore’s Army are your best friends ever. What are you  _doing here_?” 

Now Potter just looked like he was trying with all his might not to scratch the aforementioned hives. 

“You know,” Potter said. “I had this dream. It was like a vision of the future. And guess what? You’re going to go bald.” 

That did it. 

The combination of Potter’s look of consternation, his hives of sarcasm and the condescending tone in which he had just delivered this message sent him over the edge. 

He collapsed in uncontrollable laughter. Through it all, Potter just stood there, staring stonily into space, which just made him laugh even harder. When he finally recovered, tears were rolling down his face and he was probably the colour of a tomato.

_A sexy, attractive tomato._

“So, you want me to go,” Potter said in a heavy, toneless sort of voice.

_Ooh, Potter._

_Do you really think_ you _can talk to_ me _on the subject of passive-aggression?_

He opened his eyes wide and batted his lashes at Potter. “Oh, what gave you that impression, sweetheart?” He wrapped his arms around his torso and hugged himself tightly. “Never leave me!” 

_Come on, admit it._

_The shocking truth—you chose to go with Draco Malfoy._

“Well, you’ll be coming with me, right? To join the DA?” Potter said then. “I mean, I did save your life twice. What was that Debby vitay thing you kept harping on about? Didn’t you say you had to be my bodyguard and protect me from the bad wizards who might try to hurt me?” 

_Oh, nice time to play that card._

_You didn’t know what Debito Vitae was!_

_You didn’t even believe it was a real thing until Granger recognised it._

“Potter,” he said, running his hands through his hair, “I would rather learn how to ride side-saddle on a Blast-Ended Skrewt than spend another five minutes in the company of your so-called friends.”

_If I wanted to witness animalistic grunting and slobbering on a massive scale, I’d visit a Troll Park._

“So I guess you’ll just be breaking your vow, then. That’s all I expected of you, to be honest,” Potter said in a rather lofty tone.

“Oh, as a  _failed Death Eater_  I break vows along with my bread for breakfast, Potter. They go so well with a nice warm cup of blood of the innocents.” 

There was laughter in Potter’s eyes again. 

“And I’d like to see you find a Death Eater without my help. A pack of Gryffindors blundering around Britain for Servants? You couldn’t find your own arse if it was on the front instead of the back.”

“So you will come?” Potter said, and smiled at him. 

It was the smile that did it. 

_A life debt isn’t a joke, Potter._

_It means I almost died twice._

_But I guess being Harry Potter, dying isn’t something you look on too seriously._

“A life debt is easily dissolved, Potter. It’s considered deeply dishonourable, but it’s easily done.” 

_Let’s just clear out the bullshit now, shall we?_

“Er…” Potter looked lost. 

_Go on, do it, if you have no need of me._

“All that needs to occur,” he said in as clear and emotion-free tone as he could. “Is for the debt to be forgiven.” 

_Leave._

_And go back to your Lightbunnies._

The wind whipped his hair around, blowing a hank of it across his face. He reached up and pulled a strand of hair out of his eyes. 

“Where’s your Mark?” 

The change of subject was so abrupt and the question so intrusive that he genuinely had to wonder if Potter, despite all appearances, had Giant lineage. That would go some way toward accounting for his massive emotional obliviousness.

He realised Potter was looking at his left wrist. 

_Did you not even notice it was gone until now?_

“I glamour it,” he said, sticking his arm behind his back.

“Why?”

Potter was changing the subject, letting the issue of the life debt drop unacknowledged. 

 _So you_ don’t _want to leave._

_Can’t you just admit that?_

“Because I can’t stand the sight of it, and it’s that or rip my own eyes out, alright?”

_And I’ve been waiting until the Reptile was finally banished from life to have the thing permanently removed._

_Because I’m a fucking idiot and that’s why it’s there in the first place._

“Now can you just make a decision about what you want to do?” He said, wanting to force Potter, put him on the spot. “I don’t want to spend the whole night in this field and I’m fucking exhausted.”

“This safe place you mentioned,” Potter said with the dry, analytical air of a seasoned intelligence officer. “How do I know it’s really safe?” 

_No more._

_Potter, you are not a seasoned intelligence officer._

_Do what my mum’s done for twenty-five years, then we can talk._

“I don’t know!” He wailed. It was too late at night, and he’d been defending himself too long, to provide a rational answer. “Pick a reason! Just let me go home and sleep, for the love of Hecate!”

“Before,” Potter kept talking relentlessly, “when we went to your house, you  _said_  it was safe and there were no Death Eaters there.” 

He heard Sir’s voice. 

_Tell him the truth if you want him to trust you._

_It’s that simple, Draco._

“You’re killing me with this unforgiving hardline interrogation," he rolled his eyes, but forced himself to look at Potter. "My parents were… planning to leave the country, which is what all the other Servants are doing. I thought we would have the place to ourselves. But they came home unexpectedly. And I didn’t want them to see you. They wouldn’t exactly approve of me helping you to track down the other Death Eaters…” 

“So—wait—” Potter said, his eyes boggling. “Were you trying to… sneak me out of the house? Telling me to be quiet and everything?” 

_Er… yes?_

Potter laughed raucously. “You are the worst Death Eater ever.”

_Er… alright then._

“Thanks, Potter.” 

_I’ll just take that as a compliment, then, shall I?_

“So,” Potter said after a moment. “I guess I’m reasonably sure, now, that you’re not trying to kill me.” 

“It only took until now, did it?” He spluttered. 

_Does that mean this whole time—_

_you thought I was trying to kill you?_

“Well, thank Hecate you aren’t Mad-Eye Moody.” 

For some reason they both dissolved into laughter. 

He hadn’t had so much fun since—since he couldn’t remember. Anxiety, fear, paranoia, resentment and occasional violence—that had become his reality.

_I’ve never seen this side of Potter before._

There was a spark in Potter’s eyes—his heart was racing.

_Potter, you’re—_

It was like there was a chasm opening up under his feet right at this moment, and he was teetering on the edge of it. Potter’s sparkling eyes and the curve of his lips under the moonlight—they were tipping him over the edge, so that he knew he was going to fall. 

_I’m going to fall in love with you._

_I thought I was, but how could I have been?_

_When I hadn’t even seen you like this?_

He knew that if he met Potter’s eyes again, it would be letting go, giving in—

_Don’t do this, Draco._

He thought of the object in his mind--his love for Potter--which he must destroy. The one he couldn’t keep. The one which would destroy him, one day, if he kept it...

_If you give in to this, you will only hurt yourself._

Sir had never said any such thing, but he knew what Sir would have said. He didn’t care. 

_I want to._

He held out a section of Time Turner chain to Potter. “Ready?”

Potter nodded and came closer, draping the chain around his neck. “Where are we going again?” 

He took out his wand, held up the Time Turner and spoke the spell which would rotate it six hundred and fifty nine times. “The safe house,” he replied. “In July of 1996.” 

Potter’s eyebrows flew up in surprise, but he shrugged and said, “Oh. Right.” 

The Time Turner began turning, faster and faster, spinning in mid-air. 

“The journey will take a few minutes,” he said. “Don’t make any sudden movements. You don’t want to end up Time-Splinched.” 

Potter laughed. “Time Splinching. Good one.” 

“I’m serious, Potter. If you don’t want your bollocks stranded in 1997, don’t move a muscle.” 

The Time Turner’s spinning slowed down. It came to a stop. 

“Okay,” he said, “Get r—”

The spell kicked in and a roar started up which drowned out his words. He closed his eyes against the intense strobing effect caused by moving at speed through dozens of days and nights. It went on for a long time. He wanted to keep a grip on Potter, to reassure himself he was there, and he was okay, but the last time he'd touched Potter without warning they'd both nearly gotten splinched, so he kept his hands to himself.

The roaring stopped all of a sudden, the strobing stopped and was replaced by darkness. He lost his balance and toppled over onto the grass of the same field they had left.

_I think I’m going to be sick…_

He crouched over, hands on his knees. The world span around him.

_Please don’t let me be sick in front of Potter…_

Eventually he found his equilibrium. Or thought he did, until he tried to stand up, when the world started tilting alarmingly and the ground rose to meet him. 

_Foomf._

He had landed on his face. The grass was scratchy and prickled his cheeks. From his new vantage point, he watched as Potter tried to get up, fell over, and then tried again. 

“It’s okay, Potter,” he said, remembering that Potter had probably never travelled long periods of time. “It’s from the time travel. It will pass soon. Just lie still.”

But Potter kept trying to get up. Over and over again Potter raised himself to his knees, then tried to stand, only to fall again, then let out a howl of frustration. 

“Just lie still, for Hecate’s sake. It will go away on its own.” He said, closing his eyes to try to block out the sensation that the entire world was about to turn over and tip him off the edge. 

But Potter kept trying to stand, clearly getting more and more frustrated and dizzy with every attempt. 

_He’s going to make himself sick._

Potter got to his knees and then lunged upward, as if he was using all his strength to fight the dizziness. For one moment tottered unsteadily on his two feet, arms waving wildly and knees unsteady, and then toppled back over into the grass, where he lay groaning. 

He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. It would only make him more nauseous. 

He lay there with his eyes shut until he started to feel better. Tired, so tired his very mind ached, but better. 

_Okay…_

_Come on…_

He rolled over and dragged himself up. He could walk again. He went over to Potter and toed him in the side. 

“Can you move?”

“No,” Potter grunted. “Leave me alone.”

“Come on, Potter.” 

“Sleep.”

“No, you can’t sleep here,” he said. “It’s not far. We just need to get to the house. Then we can go to bed.”

_Did I just say ‘we can go to bed’ to Harry Potter?_

Potter grunted. Apparently he had gone from sick as a dog to the verge of sleep in a few minutes flat. 

“Potter,” he knelt down and poked him. “I can’t Apparate you. I’m far too tired. You’re going to have to walk.”

Potter didn’t even respond. 

He sighed, produced his wand and levitated Potter, then began walking slowly back toward the Manor. He levitated Potter over the sty and across the lane. He could barely keep walking, let alone keep Potter in the air. He was drifting lower and lower. As the wards opened and the hedge parted to allow him inside, Potter’s hair was brushing the grass. With a last burst of strength he pushed Potter through and clambered after him. 

He allowed himself to sink to the grass. It was finally over. The longest day in the history of wizardkind. 

“Snithy,” he muttered, knowing the Elves would appear within seconds. He allowed himself to close his eyes, and not worry any more.


	39. Mummy's Still In Bed

**Harry**

He awoke slowly, gradually, as if he was swimming from a great depth toward the light and the surface. But the water was thick and viscous, so it took a long time, and a lot of effort. Maybe it wasn’t water, but jelly. 

_But I have to wake up._

_Wake up!_

He did wake up then, gasping, his heart racing as if he’d run the hundred yard dash, and the icy fist of terror clutching his heart once more, thrashing against the person holding him down until he realised no-one was holding him down. He was alone. He lay there with his eyes wide open lest sleep catch him again and drag him back down there. 

He was shaking. 

He pulled himself to his feet and staggered to the bathroom. He just made it to the toilet before he was sick. 

He lay there against the cool marble, wondering how he could have been sick when he hadn’t eaten in two days. 

_Mr. Figg._

The cold sweat was pouring down his neck. 

_Auntie—_

He was sick again. 

_—Mr. Figg was there—_

He closed his eyes and prayed for it to go away. 

The forgotten dream had come back.

Barney Weasley wasn’t in it. 

He was in it. 

_And…_

_Just go away, just go away, just go away, just go away…_

He felt a touch then. Someone was holding a cold flannel to his forehead, wiping his face. 

“Mister Potter is not well,” a House Elfish voice observed. 

He kept trying to push down the memory of the nightmare. Why had he ever tried to remember it before? He should have pushed it down and forgotten about it. 

 _But no, I had to go and think about it_. 

“Drink this, Mister Potter,” the voice said. He opened his eyes. 

A rather tall, skinny House Elf was peering at him over a beaky nose. It held a steaming cup in its hand. 

“What is it?” 

“It will make you feel better,” the Elf replied. 

He drank it. The nausea subsided almost immediately. He put the cup down.  

“There, there,” it said. “Don’t worry. Mister Potter will be alright.” The Elf placed the cool flannel on the back of his neck.

The simple gentleness of the gesture hurt him.  

_Oh no…_

He was going to cry again, he just knew it. He tried not to, but the ache inside was so painful and grew stronger. 

_It hurts…_

_It hurts so much…_

His throat was burning, aching with unspent tears.

_Make it stop._

_I can’t stand it._  

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe, but all that came out was a dry, racking sob. 

_I don’t cry._

_I never cry._  

But he was. 

“Back to bed, Mister Potter,” said the Elf, helping him to his feet. 

_Mr. Figg…_

He was shaking as he got back into the bed. 

 _Please not Mr. Figg…_  

The dream flashed through him. He was back in King’s Cross station, but this time he wasn’t sending nightmare children off to school or looking fondly at a nightmare wife. 

He was back in the other King’s Cross, the one he’d gone to when he died. 

And there with him…

There had been someone there with him. 

_No…_

_Don’t…_

_Mr. Figg saw me._

_He was looking at me._

The demon face grinning at him. And the eyes. The eyes… 

_You must eat._

_We must have you nice and strong_. 

“Potter?”

_Malfoy._

He pulled the covers over his head and mumbled, “Fuck off.”

“Potter, are you alright?”

_Leave me alone._

He waited for Malfoy to go away. 

His throat began to burn again. Tears were leaking out of his eyes. He kept as still as possible, the bed covers over his head but his eyes open. 

“The Elves will take care of you,” Malfoy said. “I, er. Hope you feel better."

He heard the door close and the sobs he had been suppressing burst out of him. 

He saw Mr. Figg’s eyes watching him while Mr. Figg’s mouth grinned wide, and wider, and wider. He looked wildly around the dimly-lit room. His heart was racing, he was dizzy and he couldn’t breathe. 

 _I can’t breathe_. 

_I can’t breathe!_

_Am I dying?_

He was dying again. 

No. Worse. He wasn’t dying. It was something much worse. 

_I’m mad._

_I’ve gone mad._

“Harry Potter is Master Draco’s friend,” a small voice said, and he felt the mattress dip as if something was sitting on it. “Master Draco’s wonderful friend…” 

 _Snufling_. 

The mattress dipped again and then he felt a small hand pat his hand gently. “Mister Harry Potter…” Then he felt a small, warm body climb up onto his pillow and settle on his shoulder, curled up next to his head. Snufling kept talking to herself in a sing-song voice, occasionally stroking his head. “Master Draco loves Harry Potter. He loves his friend…”

_It’s fine._

_Everything’s fine._

_It was just a dream._

_It was just a dream, wasn’t it, Auntie?_

_None of it really happened…_

He lay there trembling for long, long time, trying not to think of what he did not want to think of, until eventually exhaustion sunk him back down into the depths of darkness.

*

The timer went off. He left the wooden spoon in the porridge and went to fish the eggs out of the boiling water. Then he'd carefully, carefully transferred each one to its egg cup. They burned his fingers a little when he held them against the spoon to lower them into the cup, but it was worth it to make sure they didn't get broken. 

Then he put the knitted egg cosies on each and went quickly back to stirring the porridge. It started to burn easily so you had to be quick.

"Coffee ready?" Came a grunt from behind him. He heard the chair scraping back and his uncle settling onto it heavily.

"Yes, uncle," he said, turning off the heat under the porridge and carrying it to the table.

His uncle had spread his morning papers in front of his face. He got the coffee pot from the machine and filled Uncle Vernon's cup. Then he turned back to the hob and turned the heat on under the frying pan. When the pan was hot, he laid four strips of bacon across it. They began to sizzle and give off the smell that usually drew his cousin downstairs.

"Dudley!" Uncle Vernon roared from behind his newspaper. "Bacon!"

He went around the table to the counter on the other side of the kitchen and put four slices of bread into the toaster. 

"Marmalade, Harry," Uncle Vernon grunted from behind his paper. He fetched it and put it on the table. 

Then he went back to the bacon, which was almost done. He carried the eggs in their cups and cosies to each place setting. Then he turned the heat off on the bacon and carried it to the table. 

There was a thundering on the stairs and Dudley huffed into the room, his school shirt untucked and buttoned askew, and skidded heavily onto a chair, which made an awful screeing noise on the kitchen floor. 

"Shut it!" Uncle Vernon barked angrily, and looked red-faced at his son over the top of his newspaper. 

Dudley huffed a great sigh and began to inhale his orange juice. 

The toast popped up. He got up, put the toast on a plate and put it on the table. Then he put four more slices of bread in the toaster and pressed the lever down. 

When he sat down at his place at the table, Uncle Vernon was doling out the bacon. He reached for the last piece of toast, but Dudley, who already had two on his plate, grabbed it. 

"Oi!" He protested.

"Dudley," Uncle Vernon grunted, and Dudley let go of the toast.

He put it on his plate and buttered it before it could go cold, then tore the crusts off and ate the hot, melty, crisp-soft inside.

"You'd better eat those crusts, Harry," Uncle Vernon said, folding his paper.

He ate two of them slowly, then added treacle to his porridge and started eating that instead. 

"Where's your mother?" asked Uncle Vernon.

Dudley just looked at his plate and chewed a mouthful of bread and jam. 

Uncle Vernon has had sighed and closed his eyes. "Where is she, Dudley?"

Dudley had swallowed and said quietly, "...Mummy's still in bed." 

Uncle Vernon had slammed the coffee down, then left the kitchen. 

He heard his uncle calling softly, "Petunia?'

Silence. 

After a few moments he came back in and sat down. He took a bite of toast, dropped it onto the plate.

"Christ," Uncle Vernon said.

"But hols start tomorrow," Dudley said, putting down his jam and butter toast sandwich.

Uncle Vernon stood up, wiped his mouth and barked, "Dudley, get a move on."

Dudley scowled and stood up, making the chair scrape loudly. "She can't get ill!"

"Get to school! I don't want to get another truancy notice."

Dudley stood up and threw his bacon at Harry before stomping out. 

"And tuck that shirt in properly! No son of mine is leaving the house looking like that!" Uncle Vernon roared.

He picked up the bacon Dudley had thrown and put it carefully on his plate. Uncle Vernon looked at him and their eyes had met in understanding. 

"I'll call the school," said Uncle Vernon.

He nodded. He stood up and went to get a tray for Aunt Petunia's breakfast.

"If Auntie is better tomorrow..." He ventured, transferring the egg, still hot in its cosy, to the tray. "Are we still going on holiday?"

"Too right we are. It's paid for!  _Buggering hell_!" He exclaimed over the tinking of shattering ceramic. The coffee mug lay in pieces on the floor "Stay back!" Uncle Vernon roared when he went closer, "You'll cut yourself!"

His uncle squatted down and began picking up the pieces. "Couple weeks in the sun...do her a world of good! Fresh air. Mediterranean diet. Why bloody  _Dubrovnik_  I'll never know. Majorca not good enough..."

He stood there with the loaded tea tray, starting to feel impatient. Aunt Petunia would need her hot water bottle.

"Harry..." 

They both froze. It was Aunt Petunia's faint voice, calling from upstairs. 

Uncle Vernon threw the porcelain shards in the bin, then grabbed a tea towel and mopped up the coffee and tiny sharp pieces of ceramic. He gasped. Auntie would have a fit if she saw one of her tea towels being used to wipe the floor.

"Well, go on, then, boy--" Uncle Vernon gestured frantically at the door. 

He went upstairs and knocked on the door of Aunt Petunia’s bedroom. "I brought your breakfast, Auntie."

There was a murmur from underneath the bedclothes and Aunt Petunia sat up, slowly, and propped herself up on a pillow.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she said, and he put the tray on her lap. She looked very tired. She patted the space next to her on the bed and he walked around to the other side of the bed. The sheets and blanket were all rumpled. He straightened them and tucked them in on Uncle Vernon's side. Then he climbed up and sat next to Aunt Petunia.

"Did you finish yours?" Aunt Petunia asked after a moment, with effort.

He gasped. He had forgotten to finish his breakfast. "I--I forgot!"

Aunt Petunia raised a trembling hand to her temple and let out a shaky sigh.

"I'll get it now! I'm sorry!" He jumped off the bed and hurried back downstairs. He could hear Uncle Vernon's angry voice coming from the living room.

He got a second tea tray and began loading it with the last of his breakfast. He had made it back into the hallway and was almost at the stairs when Uncle Vernon came out of the living room.

"That school is a ruddy  _disgrace_!"

He froze in terror.

"The people they hire to answer the phones. I doubt if that woman has an O-level to her name, and they call themselves an educational establishment!"

"What happened?" He asked quietly, though he wanted to drop the tray and run upstairs.

"Oh, she was just an idiot. Couldn't remember who you were. I  _know_  that woman. She knows  _us_. Knows your cousin, your aunt, knows all of us. And she was acting as if— I told her to check the records, couldn't even find your record. State schools, I ask you."

He remained silent, staring at the stairs, waiting for his uncle to finish, wishing he was upstairs with Aunt Petunia.

"I'm off to work, anyway," Uncle Vernon said, picking up his briefcase and keys, "go and see to your aunt.”

The truth was that though he usually loved school, he was very glad he wasn't going today. In fact he had lain awake most of the night dreading the thought of having to go back today.

So when Dudley had said Aunt Petunia was still in bed, he'd breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't go to school when Auntie was ill. She needed him there to take care of her.

It scared him a little when Aunt Petunia was ill. Or a lot. But now he couldn't help but feel that he had made her ill because of what happened yesterday. 

_It's my fault._

_I made her sick._

Feeling heavy with dread, he started to walk up the stairs, carrying the tea tray carefully.


	40. California, You're Gorgeous

**Draco**

The Elves had woken him in the night.

_Your friend had a nightmare, Master Draco._

He closed his eyes and turned over in bed.

_I don't know why I went to check on Potter._

_He doesn't want me in his bedroom in the middle of the night._

_I should have just let the Elves deal with him._

He sighed.

_I suppose Potter is used to the nightmares by now._

At school they said Potter dreamed of the Reptile murdering his parents. That Potter was haunted by their dying screams.

_Is that what Potter dreams about?_

Or maybe Potter was still having dreams about the Reptile.

_I should have told the Elves to give him something for his scar._

_I'm sure he's fine._

_Sneverus knows which potions to use._

He would go back to sleep for a bit.

_That's a good idea._

Light was coming in the window along with a soft current of air where it had been propped open. Underneath the morning cool of late spring was the smell of earth and a sharper, greener smell, like growing things.

He stretched languidly and found a new place on the pillow and closed his eyes again.

_Just a few more minutes…_

He knew where his thoughts would go.

_I don't want to get up..._

They'd go where he wasn't afraid.

They'd go where he was free.

_I'm going there now._

The fantasy was so familiar he slipped into it like an old t-shirt, comfortable and right. The wings of his imagination flexed, tested the air.

_Anything I want, I can have it now._

The scene unfolded behind his eyes.

_I want this._

The sun overhead, a blue sky above the blue sea, and the coastal highway stretching away in lazy curves ahead of them. The colours were more intense, more alive, than in Britain.

_A higher plane._

_California._

The motor hummed beneath him and the sun was shining down. Up ahead on the hard shoulder he spied a hitchhiker, thumb out, in a leather jacket and aviators.

"Well, if it isn't Harry Potter. They've all given up on finding you, you know."

"Is that what you're doing here? Trying to find me?"

"Me? No, Potter... I'm… not trying to be found. I'm trying to get lost."

"You, er... heading down Baja way?"

_I am now._

"Get in," he jerked his head toward the passenger seat.

The sun started going down over the sea. Searing gold hurt his eyes. Shadows started to gather under the trees.

"Pull in here," Potter's voice was low. He was pointing to a turn off sheltered from the wind by a stand of whispering pines. Beyond the trees, which were already black against the sky, an enormous orange sun was sliding gently into the sea.

He parked and the engine died with a rattle. He sat there, in silence, aware of Potter sitting next to him. He was aware of Potter's breathing, and his own.

"You know I always liked you at Hogwarts."

He looked at Potter only to find him leaning back against the headrest, watching him. A band of sunset light passed right across his face like a bandit mask and the setting sun was reflected, burning, in his eyes.

"You—you did?"

Potter leaned forward and nodded, leaving the sun behind as he did so.

"I—I liked you too, Potter." He raised his eyes nervously to meet Potter's.

_Pretty._

_Pretty green eyes._

A strange tenderness had overcome him. Sweet, but laced with tension.

Potter's eyes were searching his face, his lips. Potter reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. Their eyes met again, and he knew what was going to happen.

_Oh Potter—_

Anticipation and relief were somehow combined as he closed his eyes and fell into Potter's kiss. Their lips met, silky and delicate one moment, warm and consuming the next. He felt as if he were in free fall. Potter's mouth opened, his arms wrapped around him.

_Oh my Hecate_

His heart was pounding, and his fingertips on Potter's back and sides could feel, pounding, Potter's own heart.

"Take me with you," Potter said. The wind blew through the pines and darkness fell. "Let's get lost," Potter whispered.

_Yes._

_Anything._

He couldn't speak, just kissed Potter again as the breakers crashed onto the shore and the stars emerged slowly above them.

_Potter…_

The next thing he knew, the sun was blazing in through the window. It wasn't morning any longer. He sat up.

_I must have fallen asleep again._

From his fantasy he must have slipped gently into the realm of sleep, but once asleep, he hadn't dreamed of Potter, though. He almost never did.

So many times, he had lain in bed and willed himself to dream of Potter. Fantasies were lovely, and they could be vivid, if you got into them. But it was still him in control. He was the one doing all the work. Nothing unexpected was going to happen, and he knew it wasn't real. But.. if he met Potter in a dream, he might be able to find out what it was like to kiss him for real. He would be able to feel it.

But it had never happened, no matter how hard he wished for it.

He arranged some pillows against the headboard and sat back comfortably. Through the large bay window opposite, he could see the grounds stretching away into the distance. Manicured gardens gave way to the south lawn and beyond it, the start of the woodlands.

"Snithwithington," he said.

"Master Draco," the Elf appeared.

"Get me some coffee, would you?"

"Right away, Master Draco."

"How long did I sleep for?"

"Ten hours, Master Draco. It is one in the afternoon."

Oh, Hecate.

That's not really enough.

He rubbed his face with his hands.

"Would Master Draco care for breakfast?"

_Oh my Hecate…_

_Food…_

_When was the last time I ate?_

He couldn't remember, and he didn't think that was a good sign. "Yes," he said fervently. "A thousand times yes, Snithy."

Snithy returned with the coffee almost instantly.

He took a sip and the world improved a little.

_Hecate, it's good to be home._

He sat there and just drank his coffee. No running. No duelling. No fighting for his life.

_Even if it is in the past._

_I forgot I used to have all these Chemical Brothers posters up in here._

When he finished the coffee, he got up and went over to his stereo system.

_I might listen to some Chemical Brothers._

_It's been a while…_

He pushed the eject button, and found a CD in the stereo. Babybird, "You're Gorgeous".

_Oh my Hecate…_

He pressed play and couldn't help smiling with nostalgia when the song started playing.

_I was obsessed with this song._

He remembered listening to it over and over again. Once he had gone flying while listening to it. The feeling of soaring through the air, his arms flung wide, wind in his hair, mouthing the words…

_Remember that tank top you bought me_

_You wrote 'you're gorgeous' on it_

_You took me to your rented motorcar_

_And filmed me on the bonnet_

_You got me to hitch my knees up_

_And pull my legs apart_

_Wait—_

He crossed the room and went into the walk-in wardrobe, turned on the light and stepped inside. The Elves kept it very organised, but nonetheless it was still filled almost to overflowing. It was mostly jeans and t-shirts and trainers, but he had a lot of jeans and t-shirts and trainers.

Dad had found out about walk-in wardrobes and gone wild for them. He'd had them installed in every bedroom, even the ones which usually stood empty. Father didn't take much interest in the Muggle world, but he'd been happy to steal walk-in wardrobes.

He rummaged in one of the chests of drawers until he found it and held it up to the light. It was the baby blue tank top he'd bought at Topshop and written  _You're Gorgeous_  on with non-fading ink.

_You're gorgeous_

_I'd do anything for you_

_Because you're gorgeous_

_I know you'll get me through_

He smiled. He hadn't worn this in ages. He made up his mind.

_Why not?_

It was summer after all.

_I know exactly what to wear with this._

He danced back into the bedroom, feeling light and happy all of a sudden. Last night, he and Potter had somehow had a whole conversation without anyone hitting anyone else. And they'd—laughed together, which seemed implausible if not impossible. And Potter had—Potter had listened and he hadn't made fun of him or anything.

_You're gorgeous_

He saw Potter, laughing, saw his smile. Maybe he was stupid for thinking so, but for the first time ever he felt like the smallest possibility that Potter could stop hating him. That there was a remote, but actual, possibility that they could get on with each other.

_I'd do anything for you_

He threw the tank top on top of the bed on the way to the bathroom.

_I need a shower._

_Ugh._

His shower in Gryffindor Tower had been decontamination more than anything else. Nothing more than the pressing need to rid himself of pollutants could have induced him to share a bath with Longbottom.

 _Vile_.

But now he just needed to feel like a normal human being again.

_My bathroom._

_Thank you, Hecate._

He turned the taps on and started to fill the bath. He always missed his bathroom when he was at Hogwarts. Slytherin accommodation didn't have quite the same level of luxury. He'd had his own ensuite since third year, but even though Father had spent a considerable sum refurbishing it, it still wasn't the same as being home.

_The Prefects have a full-sized bath._

_I don't see why I couldn't have one_.

It had been a space-saving model as well. It only took up the physical space of a one-person bath, but it looked and felt long enough to do laps.

_Stupid Snape._

_Wouldn't let me have my bath._

The water was ready. He browsed the frosted glass bottles lined up along the side. Father ordered them from Italy from a very old wizarding apothecary. He scanned the bath oils. It wasn't bubble bath, like in the horrendously tacky Prefects' Bathroom. It was just natural essential oil and some other kind of moisturising oil, and maybe a gentle charm to make the herbs more effective.

_Hrmm._

There was menthol and wintergreen, which he only used when he had a cold. Lavender, but that one always put him straight to sleep. He chose sandalwood, poured a good measure into the bath, stripped and got in.

_Ahhhh._

He lay on his back and floated. Life was unbearable without a bath you could actually float in.

_You're gorgeous_

_I'd do anything for you_

_I should just think about something else._

But getting Potter out of his head was wishful thinking.

He leaned his arms over the edge of the bath, crossed them and laid his head on them.

Then he caught sight of something sitting on the marble sink surround. It was an empty vial of potion from St. Mungo's Infirmary, which the Elves must not have noticed yet and thrown away. It caught his attention, but he didn't know why—

_Oh, it's…_

Before using the Time Turner he had glanced quickly at the piece of parchment his mother had given him. He'd chosen the closest available date, two summers previously. There were plenty of free dates further back in time, but his instinct had been to go for the most recent slot. It was the most practical thing to do, he'd thought. It would be fine.

But now that he recognised the Mungo's potion, it was bringing back memories of that time. It was bringing back feelings of that time.

It was the summer after fifth year and he was looking at a potion vial he'd been given when he was hospitalised after being attacked by Gryffindors on the Hogwarts Express coming back to London. His Father had just been sent to prison, and his Aunt Bellatrix had just murdered their cousin, Sirius Black. In a few weeks' time he would run away from home to join the Servants of the Dark Lord.

This was the first time that darkness had entered his life. He'd always remembered this summer as the end of his childhood. The summer he'd lost something he now saw as precious.

 _Innocence_.

_Right._

_Time for breakfast._

He'd quickly finished his bath and done his hair properly. He had put on the blue tank top and his trendy new flares, but on second thought he'd covered up with an Adidas zip-up track top.

He left his room and stepped out into the hallway. A scent met his nostrils and he found himself frozen to the spot. It was a scent of citrusy wood polish, mingled with the honeysuckle which bloomed outside the windows which were thrown open along the hallway.

_Sirius Black is dead._

He stood there, breathing it in, strange familiarity building as he did so.

_This is the smell of Sirius Black being dead._

How could he have forgotten, in the intervening years, that this scent had pervaded his experience of Sirius Black's death? Because at this moment it was so powerful that he felt he had been transported back to that time.

 _I_ have _been transported back to that time._

 _By a bleeding_ Time Turner.

It was different, though, to visit a time and place and empirically know that it was in a past you had lived through already, and quite another to be transported within your own memories, feel the emotions of your past rekindled.

What was strange was that the memories of the past were so much more vivid than the actual living reality of it…

In the middle of the hallway was a window so overgrown with honeysuckle that the flowers blew into the house and scattered petals over the mahogany floors. Underneath this there was a chartreuse green chaise longue. The chair had been removed and put in storage for safekeeping when the Reptile took up residence in the house.

The sight of it brought the memories back to him.

_Draco?_

He'd been lying on the chaise longue, crying into the pale green silk. One Elf had been trying to comfort him while another polished the floor. Finally his mother had appeared and sat down on the tail end of the chair.

_Your cousin wasn't well, Draco. Sirius was damaged by the war and prison, Draco. Badly damaged._

He'd looked up at her, sitting there dry-eyed and impassive, and hated her for being so cold and never showing any emotion.

_Was he sick… like Aunt Bella?_

_No… he was ill in a different way._

His mother had stroked his forehead, something that made him feel like a little boy again.

_He relived the past, Draco. Every day and night, he relived the most terrible moments of his life. Over and over again. It was like a curse upon him which he could not escape waking nor sleeping._

He had started to cry harder.

_So you can imagine why he was often so angry, so frightened…why he flew into rages. Why, Draco, he even hurt and punished himself to try and escape it. But… for your cousin, the first war never ended. It continued within him…_

_Am I going to go mad like them?_

The question had been in him, unspoken, for a long time. At that moment he'd had to give voice to his fears lest they destroy him.

_I don't want to go mad…_

_Draco._  She'd held his arms tightly.  _Your aunt and your cousin, they both suffer—suffered—from mental illness. Illnesses which, though horrible, can be treated like any other… You've got to understand, Draco, if they'd had treatment—if they'd had help—_

_You said Aunt Bella would get better!_

A long silence.

_You said we'd help her! You promised!_

The most awful sound in the world had come out of his mother, a moan that sounded horribly like the lowing of a cow. He'd started back in terror, hadn't known what it meant—sadness, anger or worse—

It stopped quickly and then, in a low voice,  _I have done all I know to do… my sister…_

He'd hung his head, the tears still falling, afraid to speak the fear which lurked beneath, the deepest fear, until finally it spilled out.

_Are we cursed?_

Sir had always told him Mum was the strongest person he'd ever known. He'd never really believed him. He thought that title belonged to Sir.

_Are we all going to go mad and kill each other?_

His mother had not said anything for a long time. At the time he'd thought she was waiting for him to stop crying before she spoke. But now he wondered if she hadn't been shocked into silence.

_Maybe I spoke her own deepest fear out loud._

When she spoke again, it was in a new voice.

A voice he'd never heard from his mother before.

It was a voice he knew well now.

_They won't destroy us, Draco._

_Do you understand me?_

She'd held him hard, and she had looked him in the eye. His mother was like steel, her grip and her gaze.

They'd sat together for a long time. She'd put her eyedrops in and ordered a hot chocolate for him. The honeysuckle blew across the mahogany.

_But they have destroyed us, Mummy._

That was what he had realised in the past two years.

_Malfoy, Black, Potter._

_They destroyed us long ago._

Snithwithington appeared. "Master Draco is ready to eat?"

"Yes," he said to the Elf, getting up and starting to walk downstairs, although to be honest, he wasn't really hungry any more.

_I know you want to save us, Mum._

_I know you want to bring us back._

_But I just don't know if I believe._

_I don't know if I believe it's possible._


	41. Just A Nightmare

**Harry**

The sun was coming in through the window and it was hot.

Too hot.

_Just calm down._

_Everything is fine._

He lay there in bed, frozen under the covers, staring into the white sheet. He was trying to keep his heart from racing itself to death.

_How long have I been lying like this?_

He didn't know. It seemed like an eternity. He was sweating, and he was shaking, and he felt every awful moment pass in exquisite detail.

_It was just a nightmare._

He forced himself to get up and leave the room he had woken up in.

_Where am I?_

_What the hell is going on?_

"Mister Potter is awake," a chirpy voice said from the floor.

He yelled in shock and jumped about a mile in the air.

"Jesus Christ," he gasped, clutching his chest.

"Would Mister Potter care for breakfast? Or perhaps I should say, a late lunch?"

"I—don't know," he gasped.

_None of that really happened._

_Okay?_

The Elf was staring at him. Without warning, another Elf appeared next to the first one.

"Oh Jesus!" He shouted and leaped backward, his heart pounding like a jackhammer. He could feel the sweat pouring down his back.

The second Elf came toward him, took his hands and pulled him down, toward the floor, gently. Holding his hands, the Elf looked into his eyes steadily, calmly, and said nothing, just stared into his eyes.

He looked into its eyes and after a while, he stopped shaking.

"What's wrong?"

He knew that voice. He could hear footsteps.

"Is he alright? Potter, what's wrong?"

He turned and found that he was looking into Malfoy's clear, light silver eyes.

_Oh._

_Malfoy Manor._

_That's where I am._

"Mister Potter is not well," the Elf said gravely.

Malfoy put his hands to his mouth. "What is it, Sneverus? Can you heal him?"

The Elf looked at him over its beaky nose. "Sneverus cannot heal Mister Potter. He must see a Healer."

"Oh, Hecate," Malfoy gasped. "What are we going to do?"

_It's fine._

_It was just a nightmare._

"I'm fine," he said, letting go of the Elf's hands and standing up.

The Elf gave him an appraising glance.

_Stop looking at me like that._

_I'm_ fine _._

"Er—" Malfoy was looking between the Elves and him. "Are you sure, Potter?"

"Yeah," he muttered. He wished they would go away, but he also didn't want to be alone. He took a deep breath, stood up straighter. He did feel better. "I just had a nightmare, that's all. I've had them for years. It's no big deal."

"Come downstairs with me," Malfoy said, looking at him intently. "And have something to eat."

_Why is he looking at me like that?_

He nodded and started to walk with Malfoy down the hallway. Malfoy kept glancing at him, and the scrutiny was making him uncomfortable. They came to a set of stairs. He held tightly to the railing, because he was now feeling wrung out, weak and drained. Malfoy waited for him at the bottom, watching his every step.

_Stop looking at me._

He glared at Malfoy and let go of the handrail and Malfoy blushed and walked away quickly, disappearing through a doorway ahead on the left. He followed and found Malfoy perched on an armchair next to a side table covered in plates and platters of food.

"They always go over the top," Malfoy said with an embarrassed shrug and took a bite of a sandwich.

There was a twin armchair next to Malfoy's. He sat down on it and looked at the food, but he didn't feel in the least hungry.

_When was the last time I ate?_

_I can't remember._

_I should be hungry by now…_

"Do you want tea?" Malfoy asked.

He nodded.

Malfoy immediately jumped up and went over to the sideboard.

_What is he doing?_

Malfoy poured a cup of tea from the sideboard, added milk and brought it to him. He couldn't have been more surprised if Hagrid had told him he was having an affair with Rita Skeeter. As he took the cup from Malfoy, he met his eyes again. "Thanks," he muttered.

_Why did he do that?_

They sat there in silence.

 _He's… being nice_.

He took a sip of tea. It tasted like hot sawdust water.

_He's just trying to butter me up._

_He doesn't mean it._

Gradually the tea started to taste like actual tea, and he started to feel better.

_I could actually eat something._

He got up and went to the sideboard.

_This looks really good…_

_Is that a chicken and ham pie?_

_Does Malfoy know I like chicken and ham pie?_

_How would he know that?_

It did smell fantastic. He took a slice, and a bowl of pumpkin soup, and filled up the empty space on his plate with sandwiches and coleslaw. Balancing everything with difficulty, he went and sat a round table nearby surrounded by four straight-backed wooden chairs. He started to eat.

_When was the last time I ate?_

It seemed like another age. Another lifetime.

 _It_ was _another lifetime._

_I died between then and now._

The food was good. The pie was good. He hadn't realised how hungry he was. He was starting to feel so much better, as if the whole nightmare thing had never happened.

_Last night…_

_In the field…_

Malfoy had been different to the Malfoy he knew. The hard look he was used to in Malfoy's eyes had been replaced by something softer.

_He kind of… opened up to me._

And Malfoy was  _funny_. He hadn't laughed so hard in weeks…

_Hold on a second._

He paused with a soup spoon halfway to his mouth.

_This is Draco Malfoy we're talking about._

He glanced at Malfoy, curled up in the armchair.

_Remember Draco Malfoy, the sadistic bully you've disliked for seven years?_

""I was so hungry when I woke up. I couldn't remember the last time I ate," Malfoy said, noticing his glance, "or had a cup of tea," and he took a sip from one.

He didn't reply.

_What's wrong with me?_

If he was becoming friends with Malfoy he might as well just A.K. himself now, die again, and hope he came back to life and this whole fucked up situation reversed itself.

_It's like I'm seeing reality through a fun house mirror._

_My girlfriend tries to take my place._

_My friends turn into enemies._

_And my enemy becomes my friend._

He shook his head, physically, to negate the thoughts.

_No._

Things were wrong at the moment, but he was going to put all of that right.

 _There's nothing wrong with_ me _._

_It's reality that needs fixing._

He had felt— _friendly_ —toward Malfoy last night. He could admit that. But that just showed how badly things were messed up at the moment.

_If I'm going to be chummy with Malfoy, I might as well just get a Dark Mark and be done with it._

"I'm feeling better after that sleep," Malfoy said. "But I could use another night. It's already almost four in the afternoon—"

"I don't need to hear every thought that you're thinking," he said bluntly, and went back to eating his pie.

_If Malfoy thinks he can butter me up, he'd better forget about that now._

"i beg your pardon?" Malfoy said, his voice much higher in pitch suddenly.

He swallowed, put his fork down, and turned to look at Malfoy. "You're the last person I want to make chitchat with." He picked up a sandwich and took a large bite. But as he started to chew, a particular taste filled his nostrils. With a dawning sense of horror, he looked at the sandwich he had just taken a bite of.

_Sweetcorn and tuna._

He put the sandwich down quickly. He felt a strong desire to spit it out his mouthful. Instead he forced it down, even though it was like swallowing a ball of wet newsprint. He nearly retched as he did so. He pushed his plate away.

_What's your problem?_

_It's just a sandwich, for Christ's sake._

_Calm the fuck down._

He downed half a beaker of pumpkin juice to flush the taste out, then took a deep breath.

_You need to focus._

_You need to get the Death Eaters._

_Get Ginny back._

_Get Ron and Hermione back._

_Get things back to normal._

_You know, the important stuff?_

"Where are the Death Eaters?" He pulled his plate back and, ignoring the sweetcorn and tuna sandwiches and coleslaw, continued eating his pie.

_Keep things to the point._

_No joking around._

He turned around again to look at Malfoy. "Well? Where are they? Or do you not know?" He speared a piece of chicken with his fork. "Or maybe you don't know. Maybe you've been stringing me along this whole time."

Malfoy's face was as white as salt. "Dubrovnik."

"What?" He said sharply, his head snapping up to look at Malfoy.

"It's a city in Croatia," Malfoy said coldly, his eyes hard as glass now.

_Why bloody Dubrovnik I'll never know._

"I'm not fucking going there," he retorted, standing up, anger erupting through his veins.

_Did Malfoy do something to me in that field?_

_Did he put an enchantment on me?_

_Is that why I started to like him?_

_I will never like Draco Malfoy._

_Never._

Malfoy rolled his eyes and turned his gaze away. "Fine. There may be some in Tirana as well. Kotor. Skopje. They'll be scattered over Southeastern Europe. But Dubrovnik is—."

_Don't say that word!_

" _I'll_  decide where we go," he said, breathing harshly.

Malfoy cast a disdainful glance at him and turned away. He picked up his tea cup and took a sip of tea. "Do you think you're an Auror, Potter?" He couldn't see Malfoy's face because of the high wings on the sides of the armchair. "In case you didn't notice, there are no more Aurors. There's no more Ministry, for Hecate's sake…"

_That's it…_

He couldn't take it any more. Anger carried him over to Malfoy's chair and quick as lightning, with his Seeker's reflexes, he wiped the teacup out of Malfoy's hand. It sailed through the air and smashed against the wall.

Malfoy remained frozen in his chair for a second, staring up at him in shocked horror. He was surprised to see tears on Malfoy's cheeks.

He lunged for Malfoy, but instead of retaliating, Malfoy leapt out of the chair so nimbly that Malfoy was halfway across the room before he registered he was gone.

Malfoy stood there, breathing heavily. "What in Hecate's name is wrong with you Potter?"

He marched toward Malfoy, his hands curling into fists. Malfoy backed away.

"Stop it Potter! Stop attacking me."

_We're enemies, aren't we?_

_Isn't that what enemies do?_

_Fight?_

"You won't fight," he realised, giving up. "Fucking coward."

Malfoy stared at him. "Aren't you tired of violence?"

"No!" He retorted. He forced himself to look at Malfoy.

_He's just like Peter Pettigrew._

_Remember that._

"At the end of all this it will be down to me whether or not you end up in Azkaban or get off scot free despite all your crimes. So you might want to play your cards right and make sure you stay on my good side."

"Staying on your good side means letting you beat me to a pulp?"

He scoffed. "Whatever."

"Who exactly is going to put me on trial, Potter? Azkaban has no guards. The Ministry of Magic is dead in the water."

"It's not going to stay like that forever, no matter how much  _you_  want it to," he snapped. "They'll get organised, find a new Minister, all of that. Things will go back to normal soon."

Malfoy shook his head. "Well, you would think that. You refuse to listen to any information that contradicts it."

"You know," he said. "I'm getting a little tired of you trying to tell me I don't know anything, Malfoy."

At the sound of his name, Malfoy's eyes flashed and he glared at him.

"I don't need  _you_ ," he said slowly, "to tell me about the wizarding world. I'm  _actually a wizard too_  and I'm not  _fucking stupid_."

"Could have fooled me," Malfoy said quietly, still looking straight at him. Malfoy's cheeks were bright pink.

"You don't know me," he said. He felt as if his veins were filling with hot venom. "You don't know anything about me. I've never liked you, Malfoy, and no-one at Hogwarts liked you except for a few Slytherins, and I'm sure they were just sucking up to you cause of who your Dad is. Seriously, Malfoy, apart from your House Elves and your little Snuffles there, I've never met anyone who thought well of you. You know, I'm not surprised if people at Hogwarts were saying things about you."

Malfoy started as if he'd been hit with a curse.

"They always did. They said you were a coward and a sneak and a nasty piece of work."

Malfoy's eyes were bright. "Bastard," he whispered.

_No, I'm not._

_You're the baddie here._

_Not me._

Malfoy tried to slip away, but he caught him by the sleeve and threw a punch which went wide.

Malfoy grabbed his upper arm in a vicelike grip. "Don't hit me—" Malfoy hissed, his silver eyes alight, "don't you dare hit me." Malfoy pushed him away, hard, and stalked out of the room.

_He deserves it._

There was a comfortable-looking sofa on the other side of the room. He went over to it and sat down.

_He deserves everything he gets._

It  _was_  a really comfy sofa. He lay down and plumped a pillow underneath his head.

 _I'm not going to_ _sleep._

He would just lie here for a moment. Then, he was going to give himself a tour of Malfoy Manor and see what he could find.

_There's probably a mountain of evidence against the Malfoys in this place._

He smiled to himself. He wasn't tired in the least. He just wanted to try out this sofa a little longer.

_Everything will go back to normal soon._

_It has to._

*

It was just him and Auntie, like it always was when she was ill. Breakfast television ended, so it was time for a video now. Aunt Petunia's favourite film was "Thelma and Louise". They always watched it when she was ill.

He got off the bed and went to fetch the video.

"Hold on-" Aunt Petunia said slowly. Sometimes when she was ill, she spoke very slowly and it seemed as if her words cost her a great effort, as if each one was difficult to get out.

He paused at the bookshelf and turned around. She hadn't spoken at all for the last hour. She'd stared at the televsion, motionless except for when she drank from her cup of tea.

"What...er..." she said with difficulty, "happened... at school yesterday?"

He looked at the floor. "Nothing."

She sighed and laid her head back against the pillow, as if she were too tired to keep it upright.

"I'm sorry!" He said, and climbed back next to her.

_I'm sorry I made you ill. I didn't mean to._

_Will I still have my 10th birthday party?_

"Don't apologise!" She snapped, sounding very annoyed all of a sudden.

_I'm sorry._

"What happened, Harry?"

"I don't know."

"Just tell me!" She sat up, her eyes blazing. "Tell me what happened! Jesus Christ, how difficult is that to do? It's not complicated. Just explain!"

He shrank back. Being angry was one of the worst things about Auntie being ill.

 _It_ is _complicated, though._

She shut her eyes. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," she ground out, though she didn't sound sorry, "I'm not angry at you."

_I made you ill. You should be angry._

"Harry, you were brought home by the police. At one in the afternoon. They said the school called them. What happened, Harry?"

She looked so angry, and sad and tired. And it was his fault.

He couldn't hold it in any longer. He started to cry.

"Don't cry!" She spat, "just explain!"

But he couldn't stop crying. After a little while Auntie opened her arms and he crawled into them. She held him very tightly, and he hugged her as hard as he could as well. Then he felt her back shaking and realised she was crying too. She always cried when she was ill.

"It's alright, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong. You've never done anything wrong. None of this-" there was a sob in her voice, "is your fault. You're just a child.

Her hands smoothed over his back and gradually he started to feel better.

"Now," she said, and her voice sounded more normal. He could feel it reverberating in her rib cage. "Why did Mrs. Trevelyan call the police?"

He sniffed and played with the collar of her dressing gown.

"Did you get in a fight? Were there boys picking on you?"

He shook his head.

"This is so unlike you, Harry. Your reports are so good. Your teachers always say good things..."

"I tried. I tried to go to school!" He wailed, clutching Auntie. "But they were playing a joke. Even the grown ups were playing. They wouldn't stop even though I asked them to. It-it wasn't funny."

Aunt Petunia's arms tightened around him. "What was the joke, sweetheart?"

"They-they were playing that...that they didn't know me."

"That they didn't know you?"

"They pretended they didn't know who I was. They didn't know my name."

"That-" Aunt Petunia's voice trembled, "that must have been very frightening, sweetheart."

"Dud-Dud-Dudley wasn't doing the joke," he hiccoughed and tears slipped down his face. "But they didn't believe him when he said-said I was his brother."

"They didn't believe him?"

"No!" He sobbed. "They said he didn't have a brother. He got in trouble for lying. Then they-they- c-called the police."

"Yes. Yes. Lucky... it's lucky..." she muttered, hugging him tightly. "You're safe now, sweetheart. You're safe with me."

At one o'clock he made tuna and sweetcorn sandwiches, coleslaw and Coke for lunch. Aunt Petunia stroked his hair, but said nothing. He was lying with his head in her lap.

"Maybe Maureen knows what to do," he said. "Shouldn't we tell Maureen?"

She stared at the screen. It made tiny twin screens glow in her eyes.

"Or...is this a secret?" He asked.

There were things he couldn't even tell Maureen, like he called Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon 'Aunt Petunia' and 'Uncle Vernon'. In front of other people he called them 'Mummy' and 'Daddy'. He had to tell people Dudley was his brother but really he was his cousin.

Auntie kept staring at the television and said nothing. Just gave him a squeeze.

There were other secrets, too.

The reason he had to see Maureen.

_This is all my fault._

_My fault that happened at school._

_My fault we can't go to Dubrovnik._

_My fault Auntie is ill._

Finally he heard her tremulous voice breathe, "I don't know."

*

"Why didn't you tell us, Dudley?" Uncle Vernon demanded that evening at dinner.

He'd made pork chops with instant mashed potatoes and gravy. Aunt Petunia had come down in her dressing gown and was picking at her food.

Dudley scowled at his plate and pushed his mashed potatoes around.

"This is  _important_ , Dudley! How could you lie about this?" Aunt Petunia snapped.

"I didn't  _lie_!" Dudley retorted angrily.

"You lied by omission," she snapped viciously, "that's lying just the same! When were we going to hear about this? When we get another call from the Head Teacher about your appalling behaviour?"

"No!" Dudley shouted, pink in the face. "Why didn't  _he_  tell you, then?"

He shot Harry an evil look. He glared back at Dudley.

"Because Harry was terrified, that's why!" Aunt Petunia shrieked. "How would  _you_  have felt in his place?"

Dudley scowled and shrugged and pushed his bread and butter sandwich into his gravy.

He knew why Dudley hadn't told. Because Dudley had gotten in trouble and been told off, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were sick and tired of Dudley's behaviour problems at school.

"Dudley didn't do anything wrong," he ventured quietly. "They shouldn't have punished him."

Dudley pursed his lips and started eating the gravy-soaked sandwich.

" _Regardless_ , Dudley, you should have told us," Uncle Vernon said, sighing and rubbing his temples.

He took a neat bite of pork chop and mashed potatoes. Aunt Petunia put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed approvingly.

Across the table, Dudley saw the squeeze and shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and breathed out heavily through his nostrils.

"Eat properly!" Aunt Petunia snapped. "Look at your cousin! Can't you follow his example?"

Dudley rolled his eyes.

"You're lucky Maureen didn't come! If she saw you acting like this toward your cousin, he'd be out of this house and in care before you can say 'Jack Robinson'!"

Dudley swallowed the enormous bolus of bread, with difficulty, it looked like. Then he turned his eyes on his mother and said slowly and pointedly, "Jack Robinson".

Aunt Petunia's eyes flashed and the next thing they heard was a resounding smack as her hand lashed out, quick as a viper, and slapped Dudley across the cheek. She gasped in horror and covered her mouth with the offending hand.

Dudley sat there in shock for a few moments, and then he let out a cry and threw himself into his father's arms. Uncle Vernon hugged him, saying "There, there."

Aunt Petunia's face was contorted into a terrible sneer of anger. She looked at Uncle Vernon and said, "The adoption papers are gone, Vernon. All of it. His adopted birth certificate. Gone."

Uncle Vernon frowned.

"His medical records. Old school reports. Library card."

Uncle Vernon stared back, red in the face and bug-eyed. "Stolen?"

She stood up and stamped her foot. "They weren't _fucking_ stolen, Vernon! I know what's happening. It happened-it happened to my sister. He's being  _erased_."

Her last word echoed through the kitchen, somehow so much louder than the swear she'd said before it.

 _Erased_.

He sat there looking at his fast-congealing gravy and felt panic thudding in his ribcage.

_I'm sorry. I'll do better next time!_

There was complete and utter silence. Even Dudley had stopped his sniffling.

_Tap, tap, tap!_

They gasped and turned as one and saw, sitting on the window ledge and staring into the kitchen, a large, grey, stately, orange-eyed owl.


	42. Candles For Sir

**Draco**

Candles flickered in a cold, dank draught. The stone was rough and cold under his cheek. His legs and arms were starting to ache from kneeling prostrate on the floor, and the cold was seeping up through his clothes and into his body.

_Sir is gone forever._

_I'll never hear him come home late at night._

_I'll never ask him for help with magical theory._

_I'll never hear his stories about wizarding history._

_I'll never walk with him and watch spring emerging._

It was all over, and for the first time he knew it, really knew it. He had been kneeling there for a long time.

The candles on the Black shrine where he was kneeling had been lit for Sirius. The Elves had kept them burning after he and his mother had left the house several days ago. The scent of the wax and the dank air blowing up out of the bowels of the Earth combined in a distinctive scent. Another scent of that summer.

On the evening of the day when his mother had found him crying on the chaise longue, they had knelt to lay Sirius Black's spirit to rest.

His mother spoke the rites, her voice sounding cracked and dry as a brittle reed. He'd looked from his mother's face to Sir's. When they'd knelt down before the shrine, his mother had started sobbing. He had felt a surge of adrenaline terror in reaction. As if Sir could read his mind, Sir had taken his hand and gripped it firmly, trying to reassure him. 

But the truth was it hadn't been his mother's tears which had scared him most. It was the look of resigned despair he'd seen on their faces when they both gazed at the shrine. As if they had felt such grief many times before, and expected to again, despite all their best efforts.

He pulled his thoughts back to the present, but he wasn't sure which was worse: remembering the past, or realising the new insight the intervening two years gave to his memories.

After all, the Black line had been nearly obliterated in the Battle of Hogwarts.

_Pyrrhic victory?_

_Is that what they call it?_

His mother had the scion she needed, but…

_What family is there left for him to lead?_

He reached forward and took fresh candles from the hollow underneath the shrine, and lit three candles for Sir. He knew there was no point saying it now, because Sir wouldn't be dead for another two years. But he did anyway. "Though this is not the place of your forebears, I bid you accept this offering of peace upon your spirit. One day hence, may we bless you in your ancestral home once more."

He forced himself to stand up and start making his way out of the catacombs. There was no point staying here. It was the past, and only Sirius' lost spirit lingered here.

Mum had told him spirits who had not been laid to rest in the ancestral home were doomed to wander the Earth for all time.

_That wouldn't happen to Sir._

_He'll go straight to the ancestral home and lay himself to rest._

That was Sir. He never relied on anyone else. He simply did what had to be done.

When the rites were over he'd clung to Sir, even though he had just turned sixteen and he was far too old to act like a baby.

 _My lady,_ Sir had said to his mother, offering his hand to help her up from the ground.

He made his way through the long, high-vaulted passage which led from the catacombs. It had been carved into gothic arches and columns to create a grand entrance to the tombs. The natural network of caves beneath the house had served as final resting place to the Malfoys ever since there had been Malfoys in England.

The stairs were in front of him. Chiselled from the rock, they climbed a long way through the darkness before letting out on a hidden door in the ground floor of the family wing. The old entrance had been much grander, in the central portion of the house, but it had been changed years ago to present a less tempting target to intruders. He started to climb, one hand trailing on the ornately carved bannister.

Sir's loss hurt him like a physical injury now. The injury was raw somewhere deep within him, as if he was haemorrhaging.

_It hurts._

_It hurts like a wound._

Until now he'd had some idea that Sir wasn't really gone, as if talking to him and getting angry at him and complaining at him would make it so he hadn't died at all.

_But… no._

_It's over now._

Two years ago, they'd climbed the steps silently. Mum's tears were already dry and her iron composure back in place. Sir had kept a hand on his shoulder the whole way up. When they reached the house, Snithwithington was waiting for them. The Elf didn't even need to speak. His mother and Sir had just looked at each other, and Sir dropped to one knee to take his leave.  _My lady_ , he murmured.

 _Peace be upon you_ , she replied. 

Sir had turned and slipped away.

His mother had turned to the Elf, who bowed.  _Mistress Bellatrix and Master Snape are waiting outside, mistress._

He remembered the sick feeling which had filled his stomach.

His mother had turned to him and hissed, _Go with John. Get yourself out of sight._

He retraced the very spot where she had spoken those words, emerging from the hidden panel in the corridor, and made his way to the library.

_I need to get drunk._

He went into the library and it still felt like it used to, when he was growing up. He was seized by a desperate wish that he could just return to the time when this house was a happy and beautiful home, before trouble had come to blight their days. It was a terribly desolate feeling, to know that it would never be like that again.

_Drunk and high._

He went to the console table, splashed cognac into a glass from the crystal decanter and downed it in one. It burned. He coughed, and then reached for the lacquered box which sat on the silver tray next to the decanter and his father's pipe. He filled the pipe carefully. He knew how to do it properly now.

_Come on._

The first drag burned as well, but he managed not to cough.

_Start working._

He sat there and waited, waited, for his pain to ease, but he was still remembering.

He'd obeyed his mother and had gone to find Sir. He'd found him sitting on this very sofa, nursing a glass of cognac, and sat down next to him.

_Can I have one?_

Sir had glanced at him and shrugged uncharacteristically.  _I suppose so._

He drank again, remembering that first sip. It was only two years ago, but how he had changed his mind about the taste. He had grimaced and almost gagged, put the glass down immediately.  _That's disgusting._

Sir had smiled wanly.

 _Are you worried about Father?_ It was the first time he had seen Sir since Father's arrest.

Sir had nodded silently. Then he said,  _I can do nothing for him._

The words surprised him. They sounded so uncaring.

 _I'm just an unemployed werewolf_ , Sir had said.

He didn't understand. He had just stared at Sir, feeling increasingly angry.  _No you're not._

 _A useless mole._ Sir was saying these words tonelessly, staring into space.

He had felt the terror which had seized him in the tomb return. It was the fear of a child watching a trusted adult lose control. He had been sweating. It was fear sweat, and he could tell he stank.

 _What are you talking about?_ He had said angrily.

Sir closed his eyes and put his fingers to his temples.  _I'm sorry, Draco_ , he had replied after a moment, in his normal voice. _Ignore what I said. Your Father and I had an argument. We didn't get a chance to make up before he was arrested and I…_

He remembered staring at Sir, realising that the words Sir had spoken were the words his father had said to Sir in anger during their argument. He remembered wondering what on Earth they could have been fighting about.

He dragged on the pipe again, willing it to make him feel better, praying for relief.

_How stupid I was at sixteen._

In the intervening years he had figured out what the fight was about, and it explained a lot of things. Only one thing had ever come between Father and Sir.

_Sirius Black._

Sir had closed his eyes and then said quietly,  _I just feel guilty._

 _You—you'll make up soon_ , he'd said, feeling strange trying to reassure Sir.

Sir had nodded, squeezed his shoulder.  _Thank you, Draco._

He couldn't understand, at the time, what a big admission Sir had made.

_I just feel guilty._

_I'm the only person Sir could admit that to._

_The only person in the whole world._

He closed his eyes. The pain wasn't receding. He felt tears sliding out of his eyes.

It wasn't like Sir to confide in him, like Father did. In fact, that was the first and one of the only times Sir had done so. He thought of Sir's hand on his shoulder as they climbed the stairs.

_Maybe it wasn't just me needing reassurance from Sir._

_Maybe Sir needed me too._

Sir had turned to him and said, without warning,  _You are going to turn yourself in to the Light._

He remembered frowning at Sir, his heart starting to pound, and the terror returning stronger. It seemed to have doubled, trebled.  _I can't._

_Draco, this is not a matter for discussion. Tomorrow you will Apparate to Spinner's End and inform Severus Snape that you are defecting._

He remembered his mouth twisting and his eyes fixing on a spot on the carpet.

 _I can't stay here any longer. I need to return to the Order._ When he didn't reply, Sir had said,  _Draco._

He hadn't replied, just kept staring at the paisley design on the carpet.

_Is this about Harry Potter?_

He remembered how he had raised eyes full of resentment to Sir.  _Isn't everything?_

Sir had gazed back at him.  _I'll be there. I'll help you._

He remember snorting with derision and tossing his head with an arrogant flourish.  _I don't need a_ _n unemployed werewolf will help me get on with Potter._

Sitting here now, looking back over the years, regret was not the word to describe what he felt. Remembering his words to Sir, he felt the injury within himself deepen. And he realised now that had delivered this line exactly as Father would.

Sir sat back, an unusual anger lighting his eyes.  _Do you know why those two showed up at our door? Why they want to see your mother?_

He had jutted out his chin and said something sarcastic.

Sir had been genuinely hurt, and he hadn't hid it. Even though Sir had so much control over his emotions, he somehow never hid them; they were always on full display.  _I certainly hope you are can't just enjoy your summer and go back to school in September. Things have changed. We can't protect you here, Draco. It's time._

Remembering, he didn't wipe his tears away. He was suffused with shame as the memories came to the surface of his mind.

He had paused for a long moment, thinking. He knew Sir hadn't told his mother. Sir wanted to help him protect that illusion. But somehow that made him resent Sir even more. Sir wasn't going to say what they both knew: that Sir had been successful, whereas Draco had failed. That this lie was the only thing which stood between Draco Malfoy and being nothing at all, worthless and unworthy. He knew what he was going to do; the question was if it would work on Sir. Sir was the one who had taught him these skills. Would he be taken in by them?

_I didn't believe he would be._

_I was so sure he would see right through me._

He had looked up at Sir and said,  _I don't like it. But I'll do it. Over time, maybe, I can gain Potter's trust._

Sir had looked back at him for a few moments, and then he had smiled widely and reached out and hugged him in sheer relief.  _Of course you will._ Sir had sat back and looked at him. He remembered seeing pride shining in Sir's eyes.

_He left a few minutes later._

_I didn't see him again for months and months._

He lay down on the sofa. He couldn't seem to stop crying. He should never have come back to this time. He should have taken one look at the dates on the Safe House calendar and known to stay away from this summer. But maybe that was why, unconsciously, he had chosen it.

_I don't want to do this any more._

He had been in hell for two years, and he didn't want to be dragged back down.

*

Eventually, he left the library and went back to his room. He knew his face was swollen from crying and he didn't want Potter to see him like this.

_You're the last person I want to make chitchat with_

_That's not the impression I got last night._

_I've never liked you, Malfoy._

_Tell me something I don't know, Potter._

He pushed his hair back from his hot face.

_No-one at Hogwarts liked you except for a few Slytherins._

He felt his eyebrows drawing downward into a bitter scowl. He tried not to remember how he had felt this morning, prancing around his room to that stupid song.

_Seriously, Malfoy, apart from your House Elves and your little Snuffles there, I've never met anyone who thought well of you._

Or last night, when Potter had looked at him in a new way, for just a few minutes…

_Yes you have._

_You just don't know that he wasn't all he seemed._

He got to his room and went into the bathroom and found a calming lotion for his face. He slathered it on and leaned on the sink, waiting for it to take effect.

_I'm not surprised if people at Hogwarts were saying things about you_

For Potter to throw his words back in his face like acid was shocking even to Draco Malfoy.

_Why did I do that last night?_

_Why did I open myself up to him?_

The truth was last night he had intended to set the record very, very not straight that Draco Malfoy was more than a little fabulous and if Potter had a problem with that, he could take a number and the queue was already out the door. But instead he had found himself telling Potter things he'd never meant to…

_Trust, Draco._

_The willing and voluntary dropping of defences._

It hadn't just been him. Something about Potter—about the atmosphere between them—that had made him want to…

_I'm not surprised if people at Hogwarts were saying things about you_

It hurt like a kick in the stomach.

_Stupid boy._

_You did that to yourself, you know._

_Well, I won't be making that mistake again._

He raised his hands to start taking the lotion off his face, but his left hand knocked against something which fell over with a tinkle of glass. He caught it before it rolled off the counter. It was the vial of potion from St Mungo's.

_Ah…_

_Another reminder of a wonderful moment from the past._

Dumbledore's Army had attacked him, Vince and Greg on the Hogwarts Express going back to London. He had tried to trip Potter up, or something stupid—another stupid, failed ploy to get Potter's attention—and the three of them had been set upon. It had been several hours before they were found after the train arrived at King's Cross, so badly transfigured that they had been lucky to escape without being maimed. Vince had actually slipped into a coma for several days.

_Dumbledore's Army._

_Leaders of the Future._

He set the bottle back on the counter and reached for the cotton jar. As he cleaned the lotion off, it was clear it had worked. His eyelids were back to a normal size. His eyes were still a little bloodshot, so he put in some eyedrops.

_That's better._

His face looked normal again.

_Better for what?_

_In case Potter wants to pound it later?_

He was still wearing the Adidas zip-up top.

_Whatever._

He unzipped the top and let it fall to the floor. The tank top was made of soft cotton and it had spaghetti straps. It was actually a little tighter than it had been when he'd bought it, because he'd grown since then. But it looked good fitted.

_'You're gorgeous'_

He smoothed his hands over it, over the lines of his torso. He liked the way his collarbones looked underneath the straps.

_It looks fucking cute._

He rummaged in one of the drawers under the sink and found a choker he had never dared to wear in public. It was made of fine black nylon cord, woven into a series of interlocking loops. He settled it around his neck. He combed his hair, which almost reached his shoulders because he hadn't had it cut in months. He struck a little pose and winked at himself over his shoulder in the mirror.

_Sick._

Nothing had changed. Potter had always disliked him, as Potter himself had said.

And he had always disliked Potter, except that now he liked him, which he had not said.

Nothing had changed.

_It has, though._

_Everything is changing._

_Just not how Potter feels about me._

_That will never change._


	43. Wronski Feint

**Harry**

He awoke with a gasp, and he was up on his feet with a crash, and something hurt his leg and he stared around, breathing fast, looking for a threat.

The room was empty. He had knocked a small table over when he leaped off the sofa.

He left the room immediately, as if he could leave the nightmare behind him as well. He felt panicky and hot.

"Mister Potter," said a voice from near the floor.

"Arhg!" He started, jumped about a mile high and then stood there panting, clutching his chest.

"Mister Potter is not well," the Elf said, following him as he started to walk away.

"I'm fine," he snapped. "I didn't  _mean_ to fall asleep. I don't know how it happened!"

"Mister Potter might take this for his nightmares," said the Elf, still trotting along behind him.

He was making his way toward the staircase. He ignored the Elf.

"This potion will stop nightmares in their track," said the Elf.

He looked down and saw that it was holding a small vial aloft as it hurried along, trying to keep up with him.

The Elf had his attention now. He stopped. "What did you say?"

"Our Elf Sneverus brewed this potion for Mister Potter today," the Elf continued, still holding the small vial up. "Sound sleep with no dreams. And no nightmares."

He took the bottle and slipped it into his pocket. "Er—thanks."

The Elf bowed.

He turned and kept walking.

"Mister Potter should still see a Healer," the Elf called after him.

"Yeah, thanks," he said, and swung up the stairs.

He needed to do something, and he needed Malfoy's help to do it.

Once he got to the second floor, he looked down the long, long hallway stretching on both sides, lined with identical doors, and wondered how he was going to find Malfoy's room in all of this. There was a large window at the very end of the corridor on his right. If he looked to his left, he could see the corridor ended in a large pair of double doors. He realised that the double doors must lead to the portrait gallery where Malfoy had taken him last night.

_Or was it the night before?_

Everything was blurring into one. It was hard to keep track of what day it was. He couldn't have slept for more than a couple of hours on that sofa. It was getting dark outside. Or had he slept for a full night and day through?

He felt unnerved and jittery. He decided to left, toward the direction with the window at the end. When he and Malfoy had come this way before, he was sure they had passed a staircase on their way to the double doors.

He needn't have worried about finding Malfoy's room. All of the doors were identical apart from one. One set of double doors was painted baby blue and on one of them hung a sign which read,  _Beware o_ f _the bitch._

He knocked on it, hard, several times.

"Yes?" Malfoy opened the door.

He frowned. "Why do you look like Fleur Delacour?"

Malfoy frowned back. "Who?"

He shook his head. Malfoy didn't  _really_  look like Fleur at all. Malfoy's hair was blowing around and he supposed they had similar hair colour.

"I want to make a Firecall," he said.

"To whom?" Malfoy inquired, still frowning.

"None of your business," he snapped.

"You do realise it's 1996?" Malfoy said.

"Sorry?"

"We travelled back in time," Malfoy said. "Remember?"

Malfoy wasn't making any sense. "Can you stop waffling? I need to Firecall my girlfriend."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "We don't keep Floo powder in the safe house for exactly this reason."

He stared at Malfoy in disbelief. "Are you saying you've completely cut me off from the outside world? I wanted to call Ron and Hermione after Ginny."

Malfoy didn't reply. He just turned and walked away into his room, leaving the door open.

"Hey—" he followed Malfoy into the room. He was going to interrogate Malfoy further about the Firecalling business, but a strange feeling stopped him in his tracks. He stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what it was.

Malfoy was leaning against the back of a sofa, arms folded. "Yes?" He said pointedly, one eyebrow quirked.

_Muggle stuff._

Malfoy's room was full of Muggle stuff. Behind the sofa he was leaning on was a huge entertainment system comprising a big screen TV and hi-fi. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with what looked like CDs and VHS tapes.

_Thelma and Louise._

"Yes, Potter?"

"What in  _God's_  name is all of this?" He got out eventually. 

"I drive a car," Malfoy pointed out in a reasonable voice. "Is this really so surprising?"

He was starting to feel hot and uncomfortable again. "I don't understand."

"Do you have a  _problem_ with Muggle technology?" Malfoy asked.

"You  _hate_  Muggles," he said.

"Do I?" Malfoy sat down on the sofa and turned on the telly. The screen lit up and Malfoy began to flick through the channels.

He clenched his fists. "What is going on?"

"Changing Rooms?" Malfoy asked.

"No, this room is fine," he ground out.

_Trying to remind me where I came from?_

_Why I'll never be as good as a real wizard?_

"Or there's Countdown," Malfoy continued. "But the arithmetic does my head in, quite frankly…"

_Or… does he know…_

_what my nightmares are about?_

_Is he trying to freak me out?_

"Malfoy!" He shouted.

Malfoy turned to him. "Speak to me in a courteous manner if you expect a response," he said and turned back to the telly.

"Fine," he spat. "I haven't been in the Muggle world for years. It means less than nothing to me. So much for your plan. And since you won't let me speak to my friends, I'm going to leave now. I'm going to search the house. Don't try to stop me, or hide any evidence."

He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"Potter," Malfoy said again. "I don't want you to defend me."

He turned around, frowning.

"What you said about defending me if I'm put on trial," Malfoy said, leaning forward on the sofa. Malfoy was wearing a top which exposed his arms, shoulders and neck. His collarbones stood out sharply. "I'm not interested."

"Er…alright," he said.

"I owe you my life twice over," Malfoy said. "I'll help you to find the Servants, help you to capture them. But once my debt is repaid, that's it. You'll never see me again."

He shrugged. "In that case there'll be nothing to stop me from arresting you along with the rest of them."

Malfoy glared, then smirked. "I'm so afraid. Please don't tie me up again, Mr. Auror."

He frowned.

_What does he mean by that?_

"What about your parents?"

"My parents are really none of your business."

"Erm…alright then," he said. "Does that mean you're going to try to stop me from searching your house?"

Malfoy looked at him, shrugged and turned away. "Do whatever you want," he said, sitting back down and focusing his gaze on the television. "I really don't give a shit."

He walked out of Malfoy's room and away, heading for the set of double doors which led to the portrait gallery. He hadn't recognised any part of this house so far.

_Well, that was random._

_Right._

_Time to investigate._

*

He had learned one thing tonight: Malfoy Manor was absolutely enormous. He had been wandering for hours. A high stone gallery lined with statues had led outside, to a wide circle surrounded by columns. There were stone benches in a circle around the circumference, as if it was an amphitheatre of some kind. He sat down on one of them and stifled a yawn.

_No._

_No sleep._

An idea came to him. "Er—Snith…withington?" He said. It felt strange and presumptuous to try to summon a House Elf in the way that Malfoy did. But a few moments after he had spoken the words, the Elf appeared. "Is there a broom I can use?"

The Elf bowed and returned almost instantaneously holding a racing broom in his hands. It was Malfoy's Nimbus Two Thousand and One.

He almost smiled, and stood up to take the broom from the Elf. The handle was light in his hand. He tested it on the air. It was a fine broom. He hadn't ridden in so long, not properly, not for fun. With a sense of expectation, he mounted the broom, kicked off and soared into the night sky. The stars were bright and the sky was black.

He levelled out and flew fast. He accelerated as fast as he could, head down when the wind made his eyes water, pushing the broom to its limit. He dropped into a dive so steep his stomach plummeted and he was in free fall. The ground rushed up to meet him, and he waited, waited, waited to pull up—and did so abruptly he tumbled right off the broom and found himself on his back, winded, having fallen a good ten feet.

He got up and did it again. He accelerated at such a steep angle that he had to cling on to stay on the broom, levelled off and then dropped. This time he got closer to the ground before he pulled up.

He did it again.

He fell.

The ground rushed toward him.

And rushed.

_Why pull up?_

_Why not just… let it happen?_

He felt the grass tickle his knuckles.

He pulled the handle back, and the kickback from the broom was such that it span him right around like a catherine wheel three times before dumping him on the grass.

When he sat up, he realised that there was a small figure watching him from the stone courtyard. The Elf who had brought his broom.

_Nosy._

"I'm fine," he waved at the Elf. "It's the Wronski feint."

But the Elf stayed there, watching.

He got back on the broom, pushed off and burst upward as fast as he could, then started speeding away from the house and over the grounds. There was a huge garden behind the house, then perfect green lawns behind that, then something which looked like a maze, and more lawns. Eventually the lawns gave way to untamed fields. Up ahead in the distance, he could see the dark mass of a forest. He stopped for a moment, looking over the countryside spread beneath him.

_Where does the Malfoys' land end?_

He couldn't see a border.

And yet, there was that hedge they had come in by. The one that opened for Malfoy.

_Didn't he say something about wards?_

He took the small vial of potion out of his pocket, the one which would prevent nightmares. He wasn't planning to sleep, but he decided to take it now just in case. He hadn't meant to fall asleep earlier.

_I should have asked the Elf for a potion to prevent sleep._

_That would have made sense._

After all, if he didn't sleep, he couldn't have nightmares. He peered at the bottle. It said: Take one to two drops for restful sleep. 

_Well..._

_Just in case._

He allowed two drops to fall into his palm, then licked them off. Then he re-stoppered the bottle, put it back in his pocket and kept flying. He was fine. He would stay up til dawn, then go wake Malfoy. 

* 

_Keep flying._

He didn't know how long he had been flying for. He had looped back toward Malfoy Manor, then back again in a wide circle. After the eighth or ninth time passing the Manor, he lost count.

He ignored his eyes getting heavy.

_Just keep flying._

He ignored his head nodding against his chest.

_Keep—_

He was falling. This wasn't a Wronski feint. He had nodded off and lost control of the broom. With nothing more than pure instinct, he pulled the handle up, tumbled off and fell to the ground.

_Ow._

_Don't fall asleep._

_Don't—_

_*_

"Bloody hell!" Uncle Vernon said, placing his hand over his heart. "Nearly gave me a heart attack. Must have flown into the window, not seen the glass," he said to Dudley calmingly. "Birds are ruddy stupid like that."

Then he noticed Aunt Petunia, who had stood up slowly and was walking across the kitchen.

"'Tunia?"

She didn't seem to hear him. She was staring at the owl which was sitting on the window ledge, still as a statue except for its orange eyes, which blinked slowly every now and again.

Aunt Petunia unlatched the window with trembling fingers.

The owl slowly and deliberately extended its foot toward her, and tied to its foot with a leather thong was a rolled-up piece of paper.

_Is—that…?_

"Good god," Uncle Vernon breathed.

Aunt Petunia was struggling to untie the thong because her fingers were shaking so badly.

"Must be trained—a  _trained_  owl, ruddy hell, who'd have thought of that, eh?" Uncle Vernon muntered on, patting Dudley's hand.

_Auntie_

He got up quickly and went to her side. He could feel her whole body shaking. He reached up and undid the knot that kept the rolled-up paper in place.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she whispered.

The owl blinked at him twice, ruffled its feathers, let out a loud  _hoo-hoo!_  and flew away.

He wrapped his arms around Aunt Petunia to try to stop her shaking.

_It's about me, isn't it?_

Aunt Petunia was reading the letter. As she read it, he felt her breathing quicken and a wild look came into her eyes. She looked down at him for a moment, then at Uncle Vernon and Dudley.

"Well," Uncle Vernon said, his voice shockingly loud and abrasive in the dead silence which had descended over the kitchen. "What the ruddy hell  _is_  it, Petunia?"

Then she put her hands on his arms, which were hugging her, and squeezed gently and pushed them away. Then she walked quickly out of the room and they all heard her walking up the stairs and her bedroom door slam.

For a moment he, Dudley and Uncle Vernon all stared at each other, dumbstruck.

And then, as if answering some bizarre cue, the doorbell rang.

Uncle Vernon jumped a mile high, slammed his napkin down on the table and, with his face bright red, stormed out of the room.

He stood there twisting his foot back and forth on the linoleum, a creeping panic starting to eat at his insides.

Dudley was staring at him. His heavy brows bore down so much upon his small eyes that they almost disappeared, leaving just two bright spots of reflected light glinting at him with hatred. "What the fuck have you done?"

"That's not very nice language."

"She's  _my_  mother," Dudley hissed, his fat fist slamming onto the table just as his father's had done a moment before.

"Yes, but she loves me more," he replied with a small smile. Then he bolted around the other side of the table, quick as lightning, before Dudley could get out of his chair and catch him. Dudley scrambled after him, causing the wooden chair to clatter loudly to the floor.

He ran hell for leather to the front door, where Uncle Vernon was still fumbling with the deadbolts. There were four or five of them which made it time consuming to open the door. He skidded to a halt right next to Uncle Vernon and cast a smirk back at Dudley, who was hurrying along with a black look on his face. Dudley wouldn't try to hit him while Uncle Vernon was nearby.

Uncle Vernon winced as the bell sounded again, right above their heads. "Yes, yes," he shouted, "Two bloody ticks—"

He was on the verge of opening the door when there was a sound of quick footsteps on the stairs and Aunt Petunia flew into the hall.

_I've never seen Auntie run before._

"Don't!" She half-whispered, half-screamed, running up to them and and grabbing him tightly to her.

The sound sent a chill through his bones. He placed his own hands over hers. He could feel her shaking.

"Don't let her in, Vernon," she said in a high, breathy voice. "It's that woman from across the street. I saw her out of the bedroom window."

Uncle Vernon, who was frozen with one hand on the doorknob, stared at Aunt Petunia for a long minute. Then he said, in his reassuring voice, "Why don't you take the boys into the front room. I'll speak to her."

Aunt Petunia led him and Dudley into the front room, where the settees and telly were. Dudley was white as a sheet. She held on to each of their hands and they all sat down close together.

The panic which had started when the owl arrived was building stronger and stronger now. He felt as if his insides had disappeared, to be replaced with a hollow, cold, lonely space.

_What did I do?_

"Dudley," she said after a few moments, "go upstairs and get your and Harry's bag. Put them in the car and get in and wait for Mummy and Daddy."

_What have I done wrong?_

Dudley didn't cry or protest. He just got up and silently, meekly did as she said.

The moment Dudley was gone, the words tumbled from him. He couldn't keep them in any longer. "This is all my fault, isn't it? It's because of my—my secret."

Auntie put her two hands on his arms, clasped them tightly and looked him right in the eyes. "Listen to me, sweetheart. There's nothing wrong with you—" The sound of the front door closing brought the wild look into her eyes again and she started speaking more quickly. "I have to tell you something, sweetheart."

His heart was pounding like crazy. He had never been so afraid in his life. "Is this—" he said, "is this another secret?"

_Another secret._

"Yes, sweetheart. It's a secret. And you must never— _never_  tell Uncle Vernon or Dudley about this, alright?"

He nodded solemnly.

"You're special, sweetheart. But you're not the only one. There are other people who are special, too. Just like you. There's another world," Auntie continued, "another world that exists right here in England, full of people like you. Not just your mother and father and you, a whole world of special people who can all do special things. But some of them are good and some of them... some of them are bad."

"Is Mrs. Figg bad?"

"I--I think so, sweetheart."

He looked over Auntie's shoulder and he saw Uncle Vernon standing there in the doorway, an unreadable look on his face.

His eyes met Uncle Vernon's and he suddenly felt afraid not just for himself, but for Aunt Petunia as well.

"Harry? Sweetheart?" She said, and then she followed the path of his gaze, turned her head and met Uncle Vernon's eyes.

Uncle Vernon was staring at her with the same look he'd had earlier, when she'd run down the stairs and screamed at him not to open the door.

"V-Vernon—" she said, her voice trembling. "I—"

"It's alright, Petunia," he said after a moment. "It was just that old dear from across the road. She wanted help with her cat. It seems to have taken ill."

Aunt Petunia seemed stricken. She didn't respond, just put her arms tightly around him and squeezed him hard.

Uncle Vernon took a couple of steps into the room. "Now, my dear," he said, "why don't I make you a nice cup of tea? There's been quite enough excitement for one evening."

Dudley appeared in the doorway behind Uncle Vernon, holding two overstuffed backpacks in his hands. "Mum?" He said.

Aunt Petunia clutched him so tightly he could hardly breathe. "No," she whispered, as if it was all she could do to get the word out.

He felt an overwhelming terror come over him, and then he screamed at the top of his lungs. One of the cushions on the settee burst into flames.

"Jesus Christ!" Uncle Vernon bellowed and stormed into the room. "Not again!"

He and Aunt Petunia leapt off the sofa

_I did that_

_I did it_

Another pillow burst into flames.

Blind terror was roaring through him. Dudley was crying, Uncle Vernon came roaring through the doorway, holding the fire extinguisher. He felt Aunt Petunia lift him, trying to pick him up as if he were still a baby. But she wasn't strong enough, so she just dragged him, bodily, out of the room as something else caught on fire.

_It's all me_

_I did that_

_No, no!_

The front door flew open of its own accord, shattering the deadbolts as she dragged him out onto the lawn.

And all through it he heard her murmuring, "It's alright, sweetheart—it's alright—it's fine—you'll be alright—"


	44. Muggle Photographs

**Draco**

"Do whatever you want. I really don't give a shit."

Once the door was closed, he carefully cleaned, refilled and lit his pipe, switched to Ready Steady Cook, and sat back calmly to watch.

_That's it, then._

He didn't care if Potter was wandering around the house.

_Feel free to look at all of the old shit we have lying around._

_Antiques._

_Portraits of my ancestors._

He sat up.

_Shit._

He rested the pipe in the ashtray on the table.

"Snithy," he said.

"Master Draco," the Elf bowed.

"Which way did Potter go?"

"Toward the great hall, Master Draco."

"Good," he said, and got up and left his room. "Keep an eye on him. Inform me if he comes back to the family wing."

He went downstairs and into the vestibule. This was the cheery and informal entrance they all used to enter the house. There were always freshly cut wildflowers in the vases, and no stuffy oil portraits in sight.

He stopped in front of a framed black and white photograph of himself, Sir and Father, all smiling happily. They were seated on the carved stone steps which led up to the family door. Sir on the left, Father on the right, and he was sitting in between them. Sir and Father each had one arm around the other's shoulder. With their free hands, they were each holding one of his hands.

_That is so cheesy._

But he looked delighted, and so did they. The photograph was dated July 1991, just a few weeks before he started his first year at Hogwarts.

_Mum still took photographs back then._

He took hold of the wooden frame and lifted it off the wall. It was solid and heavy, the glass reflecting his own face faintly. This photograph had been taken down sometime in his sixth year and replaced with a generic oil portrait of some ancestor too minor to hang in the portrait gallery.

He looked up at the dozens of photographs lining the wall and sighed. Potter had come in this way this morning, but he had clearly not noticed them.

_Well, Sir…_

_Maybe you should have told Potter yourself._

_I'm not going to tell him._

_If he sees the photos tomorrow morning, so be it._

_I don't care any more._

Sometime not long after this photograph was taken, he and Sir had gone on one of their usual walks. Sir had noticed how quiet he was and had stopped in the cool shade of a tree with spreading branches. Sir hadn't said anything. Sir had just sat there eating an apple, waiting until he was ready to talk.

 _Sir…_ he said, tracing a pattern in the dust with his finger.  _What if Harry Potter doesn't like me?_

 _You're worried that he won't_ , Sir had said.

He had barely nodded, focusing on tracing patterns into the grey dust. He didn't want to meet Sir's eyes. Didn't want to see the disappointment there.

 _When I was your age…_  Sir began, then cleared his throat. Then he said,  _They didn't like me at first._

Despite himself, he had looked up at Sir in surprise.  _They didn't?_

Sir shook his head. _James Potter and Sirius Black were popular, good-looking. I was small and spindly. My monthly transformations left me sickly and pale. And I was a complete swot. I always had my nose in a book…_

He remembered laughing.

_They… teased me in our first year. Bullied me, you could even say. One day… I found Sirius with a Howler from his mother. She wanted him in Slytherin, you see. He was furious I had overheard, and he bloodied my nose. I wrote to my father and told him to stop my pocket money._

_Stop your pocket money?_ He remembered asking in outrage.

_After some time, it became obvious to the other students that I had no money for sweets. The bullying quickly got worse. After a few weeks, I told one of the few boys who had been friendly to me—another outcast, called Peter Pettigrew, that my father had stopped my pocket money because he was upset that I had been placed in Gryffindor instead of Slytherin._

He remembered staring at Sir, rapt with attention. Sir had smiled at him.  _Can you guess what happened after that?_

He had frowned.  _Sirius changed his mind about you._

Sir nodded.  _Our family came from the very lowest ranks of the Black vassals, so of course Sirius didn't know who I was. But when he realised what I had in common with him, he started to defend me. Once Sirius was on my side, James quickly followed._

 _And you became friends?_ He asked.

Sir had smiled at him warmly.  _As you know well. You'll have a wonderful time in Gryffindor, Draco. Just like I did._

He looked down at his eleven-year-old self, grinning away.

_Stupid kid._

Not long after their conversation in the field, Sir had made an announcement at breakfast.  _Harry Potter has received his Hogwarts letter._

Sir and his mother's eyes had met over the breakfast table.  _You saw Arthur Weasley_ , his mother had said.

Sir nodded. When Sir and his mother sat there silently, it meant they were both thinking the same thing, both knew the other knew it, and they had already decided on the best course of action. All without saying a word.

He remembered the flare of excitement in his stomach, the accompanying nervousness.  _What?_ He had asked, not wanting to be kept in the dark.  _What?_

His mother had turned to him and said,  _You will be taking private lessons in Diagon Alley for the rest of the summer._

His enthusiasm had been dampened a little when he found out what the lessons were: wand cheironomy.

 _Nonsense,_ Sir had muttered.  _But you'll be doing a lot of that at Hogwarts. Might as well get used to it now._

It was boring, standing there in the dusty room above Mr. Ollivander's shop, memorising precise series of wand movements—without magic, of course—practicing them over and over again until the old man was satisfied. His mother would drop him off in the morning, then wait downstairs at Florean Fortescue's. One day, when he had attended about two weeks of lessons, he was half-heartedly trying to perfect a complicated series of movements which combined three simpler manoeuvres he had already learned when there came a knock on the door.

 _I'm sorry to interrupt, Ollivander,_ his mother had opened the door.  _But I just managed to get Draco an appointment at Madame Malkin's for his school robes—_

She had led him downstairs. He remembered how dry his mouth had gone, how his heart had been hammering in his rib cage. Before they went out into the street, his mother leaned down and whispered,  _He'll be along in a few minutes. If you run out of time, tell Malkin to fit you for a new set of dress robes as well._ Then she had straightened up, opened the door. When he hesitated, she gave him a little push in the back.

Without looking back, he had walked across the alleyway. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen his mother return to her spot outside the cafe. Then he was standing outside Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. He had pushed the door open and gone inside.

Carrying the framed photograph, he went over and opened the door to the cloakroom. It held all of the travelling cloaks, muddy boots, brooms and other things which would look unsightly lying around in the vestibule. He closed the door and sat down on the bench which ran the length of the room and put the picture frame down beside him.

He closed his eyes. It was strange how shame never diminished. Many years had passed since that day, but burning a hole in his gut was just as painful as it had been then.

*

He stepped into the shop.

"Ah, Draco," a woman's voice called out to him from behind a curtain. "Come back here, my dear."

He scowled at the use of his first name. He hated it when strangers called him by it. It felt like an imposition.

"Climb up on here, my dear," she said. "My, aren't you slight? Don't they feed you at the Manor."

His stomach was twisted into knots and the last thing he needed was this cow lowing at him. He ignored her. He was watching out the window of the shop, watching, waiting.

"Look at this pretty hair," Madame Malkin said, carefully lifting it out of the way as she placed the tape measure on his shoulder.

"Don't touch it!" He snapped.

Madame Malkin pursed her lips and didn't talk any more.

_Where is he._

_When is he coming?_

_What does he look like?_

"Did you hear?" Madame Malkin said. "Harry Potter is in Diagon Alley today. Isn't that something?"

_Oh gosh yes._

_I'm just so excited I can't stand it._

"You two must be the same age. And you'll be in the same year at Hogwarts. Imagine that! Being in the same year as Harry Potter."

_Yes. Indeed._

_Imagine that._

"But I don't suppose you'll be in the same house, will you? I'm sure you'll be in Slytherin. That's your family's house, isn't it?"

Malkin was babbling on, and still Potter wasn't here. He started to feel rather annoyed.

_Just who is he to make me stand here…_

His arms and fingers were tired from the stupid cheironomy lessons, which were totally pointless, but he still had to do anyway.

_Waiting for him…_

There was a tap on the window. He started, looked up and saw his father standing there. Father made a grotesque face, then laughed. He laughed as well, but silently. Madame Malkin was still busy with her measuring tape.

Father then jerked his thumb behind him very subtly, as if to say,  _Harry Potter's coming._  Then he quickly blew a kiss and walked away. Madame Malkin hadn't seen a thing.

_He's coming._

_Harry Potter's coming._

Then a dark-haired boy about his age came into view through the window, and disappeared again as he was hidden by the door. The door opened and Harry Potter walked inside. He was small, skinny and he had hollow cheeks and dull eyes. He was staring at the floor somewhat vacantly.

That's _Harry Potter?_

Madame Malkin turned and when she saw the boy standing on the welcome mat, she gasped and said, under her breath, "That's Harry Potter." She turned to him. "Er—I'll be with you in a moment, dear. I just need to see to that little boy who just walked in."

They had told him,  _Be friendly. But not too friendly. Introduce yourself, ask if he's going to Hogwarts as well._

"Hullo, Hogwarts too?"

"Yes." Harry Potter replied, without much enthusiasm. He didn't even meet his eyes. He looked sick, unhealthy.

_That isn't Harry Potter._

He had imagined Harry Potter as healthy and tall, with shiny hair and a big smile full of white teeth. He had thought that together they could explore the untouched reaches of the western and northern boundaries, where there was nothing but dense forest for miles and miles. But this boy didn't look up to much. He didn't look like he was going to be going on any adventures any time soon.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands." He lied with a sudden thrill of confidence. Actually, he had no idea what his parents were doing apart from waiting outside for him to become instant best friends with Harry Potter.

_This is who I've been training for...?_

_I could have been flying._

_I could have been exploring._

_I could have been discovering the secrets of the western boundary._

They had told him,  _Don't start talking about all kinds of magical stuff right away. He isn't used to that. You can start telling him everything about the wizarding world. But not right away._

"Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms, I don't see why first-years can't have their own." he said, a little louder now. He was feeling better and more confident every minute, especially as the sick pseudo-Harry Potter visibly deflated with his every sentence. 

The truth was that he already had a racing broom at home. He'd got it for his eleventh birthday. "I think I'll bully father into getting me one," he said, imaging how glorious that would have been. "And I'll... smuggle it in somehow," he said finally, with a flourish, feeling very clever indeed for thinking of such a rebellious plan.

Of course, his birthday would have been better if they hadn't spent every second minute talking about Harry Potter.

He looked at Harry Potter, sick, sad, pathetic Harry Potter, who was staring at his feet, and said: "Have  _you_  got your own broom?"

Sometimes they spent so much time talking about Harry Potter, it was almost like Draco Malfoy didn't exist at all.

"No." Harry Potter mumbled, his eyes downcast.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," he said again.

"I do—" he said, because he did. "Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house and I must say, I agree," he continued, waiting to see the effect these words had on Harry Potter. It was every kid's dream to play Quidditch well, but Harry Potter was looking vacantly at some corner of the room and didn't seem interested at all. 

_What's wrong with him?_

_Sick, sad, and doesn't like Quidditch?_

"Know what house you'll be in yet?" He asked with a thrill, thinking of Sir's story. 

_I'm going to be in Gryffindor._

_Well, I am if you perk up a bit and show some muster._

_Come on._

_Are you Harry Potter or not?_

"No," Potter replied soullessly, with all the enthusiasm of the damned.

They had told him,  _Don't talk about the Hogwarts houses. Everyone will expect you to be in Slytherin._

"Well, no-one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

Again, no response from Harry Potter the monosyllabic whiz kid.

_No._

He said it again, in his mind.  _No._

_You can't make me._

_You can't make me do anything._

He looked out the window. The half-giant from Hogwarts was there.

They had told him,  _Rubeus Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, will be entrusted to introduce Harry Potter to the wizarding world._

His father had let out a snort of derision.

Sir had said,  _It's a slight to the Weasleys. They waited a long time for this._

"I say, look at that man!"

"That's Hagrid. He works at Hogwarts." Potter volunteered timidly.

_No-one here is going to hit you, you know._

"Oh, I've heard of him," he said, a perverse delight building within him. "He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper." It was the first sign of any kind of emotion in Harry Potter's voice.

"Yes, exactly," he said.

He could hear the slightly hopeful tone in Harry Potter's voice. It reminded him of the first crocuses of spring, just poking their tender buds out of the fresh snow.

_You know what I do with crocuses?_

_I stamp on them._

"I heard he's a sort of  _savage_ —" he said, remembering a story Father had told once. "He lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"I think he's  _brilliant_ ," Potter replied. 

As ripostes went, it was about as robust as a sheet of A4 in a gale.

They told him,  _Don't ask about his parents. That would be very rude. Don't talk about them unless he brings up the subject._

" _Do_  you?" He asked, making his eyes big and his lips bigger. He was the picture of innocence. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead," Potter said, as coldly as a dead fish.

"Oh, sorry," he said, and he let an edge of sarcasm into his voice.

They told him,  _Don't talk about Muggle-born witches and wizards. You'll have enough politics to deal with as it is._

"But they were  _our_  kind, weren't they?"

"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean," Potter replied, the first edge of defensiveness creeping into his voice. 

_That bothers you, does it, Potter?_

_That your mum and dad were wizards?_

_But you were...how can I put this...raised by Muggles?_

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways," he watched Potter's eyes grow larger and larger as he spoke. "Some of them have never even  _heard_  of Hogwarts until they get the letter,  _imagine_. I think they should keep it in the  _old wizarding families_. What's your surname, anyway?"

He had stared at Potter. 

_Like you, for example?_

_You're the scion of an old wizarding family_. 

_You slayed the Dark Lord when you were just a baby_

_You're Harry Potter._

_I'm supposed to kneel down and worship you._

_Well..._

His tiny eleven-year-old mind had rebelled with all the force he had in his tiny eleven-year-old body. 

_Fuck you, Harry Potter._

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," he said with a smirk of derision, and he marched out of the shop, his head held high. 

*

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his pipe, lit it, and leaned back against the wall of the cloakroom.

When Father came back from Azkaban, Father had been a little shocked and a little upset to find that his seventeen year old son had already smoked most of the year's crop, and started on the cognac his grandfather had laid down. But it hadn't been long before his father called him a chip off the old block and ordered the Elves to cultivate more plants.

_I need to get back to 1998._

_My CD of Suede's Coming Up is there._

Father did not like Muggle music. His only exception was Strauss. They started spending long nights in the library, where the other Servants couldn't find them.

He winced as the smoke burned his throat, and coughed hard several times. 

_I'm not Sir._

And the truth was, he didn't care. He closed his eyes and said it aloud. "I don't care."

_I could never, ever admit that to myself._

_Not while Sir was alive._

"I don't care about the Blacks. I don't care about the Malfoys. I don't even care about the Potters." He stood up. He was alone, by himself, in an empty house, cursing the past. "You can take your ancient wizarding nobility and you can—" he felt like kicking something. "You can go and bother someone else with it. I'm not going to reunite the houses and bring everyone back to their rightful place in society. It's over. It's over, Sir. It's over, Mum."

He did owe Potter his life, twice over, and that was one obligation he could do something about.

But once that was done—

He stood up and left the cloakroom.

_Good-bye, losers._

He left the picture frame sitting on the bench.

_I'm outie._


	45. Delusions

**Harry**

He woke up shivering in the early morning. Everything was grey in the pre-dawn. The dew had fallen and his clothes were wet. He was cold.

_It wasn't a dream, Harry._

_You do know that._

He curled up into a ball as tightly as he could and closed his eyes again.

_Shut up._

When he woke again, he was dry and warm. The sun was shining in his eyes. He sat up.

_Right._

He picked up the broom, mounted and kicked off.

_I need to find Draco Malfoy._

It was a beautiful day. The sky was clear and blue and the scenery below him stood out sharply in the sunshine. There was a cool breeze which cut through the hot sun. He could feel summer coming.

None of it affected his mood, though. He could feel the anger building, slowly but surely, and by the time he found Malfoy he was going to be at boiling point.

_Stop attacking me._

He remembered Malfoy's words yesterday when he tried to fight him.

_Aren't you tired of violence?_

He scoffed out loud.

_The cheek._

_He's got some nerve…_

The boy who had stepped on his face until his nose broke was asking  _him_ if he was tired of violence? It was funny enough to make him sick.

_Don't you dare hit me._

_Oh, I'll dare alright._

_I dare to hit you right between your stupid silver eyes._

He had taken the potion from Malfoy—no, he had taken it from the  _Elf._ It was just like Malfoy to use an innocent creature like a House Elf to carry out his malicious little schemes. Just like he had used Dobby. Just like he had used the Imperius curse on Madame Rosmerta.

_He gave that cursed necklace to Katie Bell._

He remembered the way Katie had screamed in pain under the necklace's curse.

_And I talked to him in that field…_

It made him nauseous to think he had been nice to Malfoy for even one second.

_Malfoy may look like a veela, but on the inside he's as ugly as they are when they get angry._

He took the nightmare potion out of his pocket and looked at it. He wasn't angry at himself. He hadn't  _trusted_ Malfoy. He had just misunderstood his motivation—his goal. He  _had_ thought Malfoy was trying to get on his good side.

_Once my debt is forgiven, my obligation to you is over._

_And likewise._

But he could see through this like a pane of crystal. Malfoy was the last person on Earth to go through with an obligation for the sake of honour and decency. No, all this meant Malfoy was that wanted something else.

He just didn't know what it was yet.

Whatever else was going on, though, he knew one thing for sure.

_I'm going to make Malfoy pay for that potion._

*

Red lights were flashing in and out, in and out. He was sitting in the grass on the lawn. The ground was cold and wet and it had soaked through his trousers.

Uncle Vernon was talking to the fire services on the other side of the fire engine.

He glanced at Aunt Petunia and Dudley, who were both sitting on the grass, not looking at each other, wrapped in rough grey blankets. He got up quietly and crept over toward the voices which were talking quietly on the other side of the cab of the fire engine. As quietly as he could without being seen, he went closer.

"My wife—" Uncle Vernon said with difficulty. "She suffers. Mentally. Depression."

"Depression is it, sir?" The firefighter asked calmly.

"Depression. She's clinical. I tell you. And, er—" Uncle Vernon lowered his voice, looking around.

He knew Uncle Vernon was looking for neighbours.

"Delusions."

"Delusions, is it?"

"She—" Uncle Vernon wiped his hand over his face. "She believes… strange things. Another society of people, living under our noses—a sort of cult. They dress in funny old-fashioned robes and tall hats and what have you. Sees them everywhere. On the street. In the shops. And she believes these people have something against her. Lives in fear of them." He put his hand over his face again. "Past few days, she's been… upset. Another episode. She's convinced our neighbour is one. She's convinced they're trying to take her son."

"And the kids…"

"No, no, no. We don't tell them. Frighten them. They just know she gets ill. But her son, he's…sensitive. Picks up on her moods."

"Previous relationship, sir?"

Uncle Vernon started, stared at the police officer for a moment. "Er—our son. Adopted… See, she believes all sorts of things. Believes she had a sister who joined these—this cult."

"Sister, sir?"

"But the thing is, she  _never had a sister_. She was an only child! My in-laws have passed on now, but I'm telling you, they couldn't get their heads around it… It's damned awkward…"

"Ah."

"My sister doesn't hold with it. Mental weakness, she calls it. Fresh air and country walks, that's the cure. Petunia, snap out of it, she'll say. And she doesn't tolerate nonsense from my wife. She questions her, you see. Who is this "sister"? Asks questions about them. Tries to make her crack, admit she's made it all up."

"Right," said the firefighter, frowning a little.

"Upsets her…" Uncle Vernon admitted. "But most things do."

"Upsets her, does it, sir?"

"And the fires… I don't know. How do they start? We've had people in, experts… still, fire, fire…" Uncle Vernon was muttering to himself now. Uncle Vernon's back shuddered. The firefighter clapped him on the upper arm reassuringly.

"You're her rock. You've got to be strong now, sir."

Another shudder. "The strain. Just to keep up appearances… the neighbours, you know…"

"Ah, yes," the firefighter sounded a little less sympathetic now. "Yes, that's a hard road, sir."

Uncle Vernon whuffled, took out a handkerchief, blew his nose and then searched for a clean corner to wipe his face. He cleared his throat, a sound like a walrus bellowing, and straightened up.

"That's it, sir," said the firefighter, writing something on a pad. "Has the wife, er… ever been sectioned, sir?"

Uncle Vernon was silent, then nodded once.

"Keep this number on you, yeah?" The firefighter tore off the top leaf of the pad and handed it to Uncle Vernon. "We've got to keep your wife safe.

The firefighters all tipped their helmets to him and Aunt Petunia, who was still sitting on the grass. The firefighters got back into the fire engine and went away

Uncle Vernon got down on his knees on the grass and was speaking quietly to Aunt Petunia. "Will that make you happy, darling? Will you be alright then?" Then he lifted her out of the grass and led her inside, and he followed. Dudley was standing inside the doorway, sobbing quietly.

"Will that make you happy, will it?" He heard Uncle Vernon mutter to Aunt Petunia as they all went inside. She murmured something in reply. "Boys," Uncle Vernon said, "get in the car. Both of you. Right now."

A thrill went through him, somewhere between fear and excitement. Was Auntie already in the car? Was she alright? He broke into a run, through the house and through the internal door into the garage. The car was already running and he could see Aunt Petunia sitting there on the passenger side. The door was open.

"Sweetheart," her tremulous voice carried differently in the garage. It sounded thin and high, bouncing off the cinder block walls.

_Auntie._

He ran to her and she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into the car and onto her lap.

"I'm going to take care of this, sweetheart," she whispered into his ear. "We're going to Dubrovnik tonight and once we're there, I'll be able to sort all of this out. Alright?"

He nodded into her shoulder.

She stroked his hair. "I'll never let them take you away from me," she said.

_Good._

He hugged her tightly. The fears and worries of the past two days were slowly starting to fade. Even the horror of the fire was gradually dulling.

_I love you, Auntie._

He was dimly aware of Dudley climbing into the passenger seat on the opposite side of the car, as he always sat behind Uncle Vernon. But Aunt Petunia didn't seem to notice and continued, "Remember Dubrovnik, sweetheart? It's the most beautiful place on Earth."

_White walls_

_Red roofs_

_Blue sea, blue sky_

"Yes," he mumbled, hugging Auntie tighter and willing Dudley away.

Uncle Vernon got in to the car and put his keys in the ignition. "We should make the last ferry," he said, "though I don't know about a hotel on the other end. We'll just have to chance it."

Reluctantly he climbed down from Aunt Petunia's lap and went and sat in the back.

"Baby," Dudley whispered, very softly so the adults couldn't hear.

"Fat pig," he whispered back.

A large duffel bag had been placed on the back seat in between him and Dudley. This was to prevent he and Dudley fighting during the drive.

Aunt Petunia turned around in her seat and said brightly to Dudley, "We're going on holiday tonight! Isn't that exciting?" Her smile was horribly false.

Dudley stared back at her from beneath the folds of fat around his eyes and said nothing. He could just tell Dudley was longing to sneak his hand around the duffel bag and give him a pinch or hit him, but he wouldn't dare to do it just now.

Aunt Petunia gave him a smile, which he returned. The car started. The garage door opened.

He was suddenly feeling much better.

Auntie was well again. That on its own was a small miracle. When he'd seen her in bed yesterday morning he'd been so worried he'd made her really ill and she wouldn't be able to get up again for months and months. But here she was, talking and walking about and even smiling. He smiled himself, feeling relieved.

School was over. Surely by the time September came around, the strange forgetting incident would have been, well,  _forgotten_ , and everyone would remember him again. And everything would be back to normal when sixth year started. Now there were two months of holidays to look forward to.

They stayed in a tiny stone house crammed in with many others, separated by narrow, twisting alleyways. Everything in that town was made of the same stone and surrounded by a huge wall. It was sort of magical, like staying in an old castle. Most days Uncle Vernon would take Dudley out to do things, just the two of them. He called it 'father and son time'. This suited he and Aunt Petunia just fine. She let him do whatever he wanted, so he went exploring and swimming and played football with kids who lived nearby.

And now they were going on holiday in the middle of the night — it was exciting, like they were robbers and had to escape the scene of a crime.

He smiled into the darkness.

_Everything is turning out alright after all._

He didn't need to think about—about secrets.

_There's another world._

_A world full of people like you._

_A whole world of special people who can all do special things._

He didn't need to think about that at all.

The car pulled out of the driveway. The windows were lit in Mrs. Figg's house on the other side of the street. He noticed a tall figure—a man—come out of Mrs. Figg's house. He was wearing fancy dress. He looked like a magician at a children's party. He had a long silver-white beard.

_I didn't know Mrs. Figg had a husband._

He watched Mr. Figg coming down the path outside Mrs. Figg's house. Uncle Vernon turned the car into the road and his window was side-on to Mr. Figg, and Mr. Figg's eyes met his.

_He saw me._

Suddenly he had a bad feeling. "Auntie," he said. "Mr. Figg—he saw me."

"What's that, sweetheart?" Auntie said sharply, and then let out a scream. They were all thrown forward as Uncle Vernon slammed the breaks on. He looked and realised that Mr Figg wasn't in front of Mrs. Figg's house any more. He was standing in the road in front of the car, blocking their way.

_How did he get there…_

Uncle Vernon pressed down hard on the horn. "Get out of the street, you senile old codger. Someone's father with dementia—" He noticed Aunt Petunia opening the passenger door. "'Tunia—what are you doing—"

"Just let me speak to him," Aunt Petunia hissed. "Stay here, Harry."

_It is about me._

_They erased me._

_And now they've come for me._

He didn't know why these thoughts sprang into his mind, but they did. He quickly got out of the car before Uncle Vernon could slam the locks on. He got out and followed Aunt Petunia.

Behind him, he heard Uncle Vernon and Dudley getting out as well. "Go inside to the phone, Dudders. If I shout, call 999."

He didn't look back at them, just went to join Aunt Petunia.

*

His hands were slippery on the broomstick. His palms were sweating. It was running down his arms. Down his back.

He was awake, he knew that much. He was still flying along toward Malfoy Manor.

He was shaking so badly the broom couldn't fly straight.

His mind had just drifted for a moment—just one moment—and—and then—

_You can't have a nightmare while you're awake._

_Can you?_

He couldn't breathe. Black spots appeared in front of his eyes.

_If it wasn't a nightmare, it must have been—_

_No._

_Please, no._

He could feel himself falling, losing control of the broom, and he fought for breath, but there was something wrong with him, and—


	46. Adversary

**Draco**

_You are going to turn yourself in to the Light._

He leaned his back against the door to the cloakroom and looked up at the wall of family portraits.

_Draco, this is not a matter for discussion._

_We can't protect you here, Draco. It's time._

He remembered what he said to Sir, looking Sir straight in the eye. It was probably the most convincing lie he had ever told.

_I don't like it. But I'll do it. Over time, maybe, I can gain Potter's trust._

Sir had left, and then he had been alone in the house all evening until late at night, when his mother had returned from her business with Professor Snape and Aunt Bellatrix. He hadn't slept that night. He had sat up all night thinking about what he was going to do.

_I don't like it. But I'll do it._

Ironic, because that was one of the most precisely true statements he had ever uttered. He just hadn't been talking about what Sir thought he was talking about.

When the sky turned grey with the coming dawn, he had carefully dressed in his most traditional robes and walked all the way to the front gates. He hadn't Apparated. He had chosen the forty minute walk through the house and the grounds. On some level, he must have been hoping his mother would wake up and stop him. But she hadn't.

He had walked to the gates, physically opened them and slipped through. 

_And then I, Draco Malfoy, went looking for Death Eaters._

He looked at his wrist, turning it this way and that in the light. If he squinted, he could see the black, evil stain underneath the glamour.

_It's so crude._

_So ugly._

_No sense of style at all._

His mother had been waiting for him in the vestibule when he got home the following morning.

_What have you done._

It was a rhetorical question. She already knew full well what he had done. He hadn't thought about it then, but now he could see how his joining the Death Eaters had been a betrayal to her.

_She shouldn't have pushed me so hard._

_She should have learned her lesson from that._

_That I would never be what she expected me to be._

_That I was destined to be a disappointment._

He couldn't stand here looking at these happy photographs and thinking of such painful memories.

_I'm going back to my room._

_Maybe I'll find something to cheer me up._

_A movie, maybe._

_Back to the Future._

He smiled. Back to the Future was a good idea.

_And hot chocolate._

He started making his way across the vestibule.

_With marshmallows._

_And popcorn._

He smiled and stretched. He was going to make sure he felt better before he went to bed.

_Bang_

_Bang_

_Bang_

Someone was knocking on the front door.

_Ugh._

"Found that damning evidence in my closet, have you, Potter?" He called, turning back around and walking toward the door. "Going to arrest me for crimes against fashion?"

He stopped.

He was surrounded by House Elves.

_What?_

Snithwithington, Snopes, Sneverus and Snufling, standing in a ring around him. They were looking up at him silently. He could feel their strong magic enveloping him.

He felt creeping horror take hold of him. "What is it?" He whispered to them.

Snithwithington glanced at the door, then said, also in a whisper, "There are two."

His stomach lurched uncomfortably. "Two? Two of what?"

With one voice, the Elves said, "Harry Potter."

His throat seemed to have closed up. "Two—of Harry Potter?"

They nodded in unison.

"Malfoy?" A voice called from beyond the door.

_Oh_

_Fuck_

The voice was unmistakeable.

_Don't speak to it._

_Don't engage with the adversary._

_Especially don't try to reason with it._

_Just get out your wand._

_And blast it into the next vale._

"Malfoy?" Potter's voice called again. "Are you there?"

"This house is not free," he said, hating himself even as he said it.

"I know," Potter's voice returned. "I see the rune."

"If you see the rune," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "why did you knock? Try another time."

"I didn't come here to use the safe house." Potter said, "I want to see you."

Whatever he had expected, it wasn't that.

"See me?"

The words slipped out faintly, before he could stop them. 

_Stop._

_Stop it._

_It's_ not  _Potter and he_ didn't  _just say that_.

"Just come in, then," he said. "What are you waiting for? Just blast the door down."

"Malfoy," the voice came again, quiet and steady. "Just let me in. Please?"

"You're not Harry Potter," he said. "Harry Potter would never do what you're doing."

There was silence. Then, "Check the wards. Check my magical signature. It's me, Malfoy. And I need to see you." There was a pause. " _Right now_."

_Right now?_

"I can't wait any longer. I need to see you  _now._ "

_Oh Hecate._

_They're gone._

The Elves had vanished.

_That means it's safe._

_Right?_

_That means it's really him._

He crossed the vestibule. His hand was on the door.

He could just imagine what his mother would say if she saw him now.

_Your adversary is not your greatest enemy…_

His hand was already on the door handle. All he had to do was turn it.

_You are._

A cool evening breeze slipped in and ruffled his hair and the flowers on the table. He stepped back as he pulled the door open.

_The most dangerous thing in the world is within you._

There stood Harry Potter, looking right at him. He looked—different.  _Healthy._ Around his neck was slung, in glittering chains, a large golden Time Turner.

_It's hope, Draco._

The moment Potter caught sight of him and their eyes met, Potter broke into a dazzling smile.

_Hope will be the death of you._

"Hey," Potter said, stepping across the threshold and closing the door behind him. Potter just stood there for a moment, still smiling, easily, happily.

He couldn't say a word. Potter's smile and the dancing light in his eyes were dazzling him like a golden galleon flashing in the sun.

"Library?" Potter asked, turning and heading off across the vestibule.

"Er, sure," he said, feeling more befuddled by the second. He was aware that his heart was pounding and there was a strange light, hollow feeling at the top of his stomach.

_Oh my Hecate._

The way Potter had looked at him was very strange. Potter had never looked at him like that before. Potter had never  _smiled_ at him before.

_Am I going to faint?_

He followed Potter into the library. 

Potter was sitting on the arm of the sofa, pouring himself a glass of whiskey from the decanter on the console table. Potter looked up and their eyes met. Potter held his gaze. Potter raised the glass to his lips and took a sip, and held his gaze over the top of his glass. "Do you want a drink?" Potter asked without breaking eye contact.

_Oh…_

He dropped his gaze and sat down quickly on the nearest chair. The way Potter had said those words—slightly husky, and somehow—somehow—

_Shit._

_Just pull yourself together._

_Maybe he's already drunk._

_That would explain the weird behaviour._

"I'm fine," he said. "I, er—," he stammered. "I'm fine.

_Shit, shit…_

Potter's words had held an invitation. His voice held a suggestion.

_I must have smoked too much pipe weed today._

_I've started hallucinating._

_Next thing I'll be on the roof of the greenhouse, flapping my arms and screaming, "I'm the Snitch! Catch me!" before leaping to my death._

He looked back at Potter and was horrified to find that Potter was still looking at him.

_Oh Hecate._

He suddenly found the torn knee of his tight black jeans fascinating.

"Malfoy."

Another jolt to the heart. He felt his eyes being dragged inexorably back toward Potter, to fix on Potter's eyes, which were looking straight at him.

"Yes," he said, and was shocked by how his voice came out. Low. Breathy.

He saw a look pass over Potter's face, and he didn't know what it meant—didn't know what it was—he'd never seen it before. All he knew was that he felt it. He felt it deep in the core of his body.

He stood up.

Potter stood up too.

As if in a dream, he knew what was going to happen and yet it felt like it was happening to someone else.

He took a step forward.

Potter dropped his eyes suddenly, and sat back down, and started fumbling with the crystal decanter.

_Fuck._

As Potter's gaze dropped away, so did his stomach. He was frozen to the spot and thought he might spontaneously combust with embarrassment at any moment. His cheeks and the back of his neck were on fire.

_Let me die._

_Now._

Potter took a gulp of whiskey, winced and, not looking at him, offered him the glass, which still had a couple of fingers of spirit in it.

_What?_

His mortification burst into anger like a flame enveloping a slip of parchment.

"Why are you here?" He barked. His voice was louder and sharper than he thought it would be and it surprised him.

It surprised Potter even more—he jumped so hard he slopped whiskey down his front—and then stared at him with big eyes.

He swallowed, hard.

_Something crazy and dangerous is going on_

_He needs to leave._

Now.

Potter slid off the arm of the sofa onto the seat. And then he said, "Come here."

_I'm asleep._

_I'm dreaming._

He closed his eyes and pinched the skin on his forearm. Hard.

_Ouch._

He opened his eyes. Potter was still there, and still looking at him. His eyes were such a deep green it took away the breath he was trying to take.

_Oh my Hecate._

He stopped standing there and started walking. Every step he took toward the sofa seemed to take a lifetime.

The more he looked at Potter, the stronger the feeling grew. The stronger the desire.

_I want him._

_He looks so good._

Potter looked better than he'd ever, ever seen him before.

_He looks good enough to eat._

Potter's wild green eyes, the set of his mouth, the line of his jaw and neck.

The closer he got, the faster his heart beat. He sat down, gingerly, next to Potter on the sofa.

"Sorry," Potter said. "I'm really nervous."

Potter leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth.

He could have sworn his heart stopped.

Then he felt Potter's hands come up to cup his cheeks. Potter's hot, heavy breath was on his lips. Potter made a little noise.

His heart was racing and he was so shocked he couldn't do a thing.

"Malfoy—" Potter had turned his name into a whisper.

He leaned in as Potter kissed him again. His stomach lurched as Potter opened his mouth. He'd never felt anything like it when Potter's tongue touched his. He was melting. His head was tilted to one side and he was dizzy. Potter's hands were in his hair.

With trepidation, he reached his arms around Potter, who immediately pressed closer. Potter was only wearing a thin t-shirt and he could feel, under his fingertips, Potter's ribs, muscles moving.

Some kind of earthquake was happening inside him, shaking him to his foundations.

_Hecate._

_What's happening?_

"You're shaking," Potter said, and reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

He didn't know which way was up. There was nothing in the world but Potter's eyes.

"This is the first time, isn't it?" Potter breathed.

_Hope._

All he could do was stare back at Potter.

_Hope will be the death of you, Draco._

Potter's eyes pinned him to the spot. "I'm sorry, Malfoy," Potter's arms were around him tightly. The Time Turner was crushed against his sternum. Potter's lips were brushing against his ear. "I'm really sorry for everything. I hope you can forgive me. But that's probably too much to ask." Potter's words were warm in his ear. "I'll see you later. I hope I will, anyway—"

And then—his arms were empty. A rush of cold air came as a shock.

_He's gone._

Potter had Disapparated.

_The wards._

_He can't apparate past the wards._

Potter could have gone anywhere. Anywhere. There were hundreds of miles, hundreds of miles of warded boundary.

_The first time I brought Potter here—_

_The southern boundary—_

When he opened his eyes, he was there—he barely felt the Apparition, or maybe it was because Potter had stolen his breath away already.

It was high summer and the sun would not set until almost midnight. There was a scent of dry grass and roses in the air.

_Potter._

He was standing in the shadow of the yew hedge, facing it, hand raised as if he were about to lower the wards—

"Wait!"

Potter turned around, and their eyes met. Potter was coming toward him, taking his hands, kissing them, and wrapping them around his neck. Potter put his arms around his waist and pulled him in close.

"Don't go," he said to Potter. He was hot all over and his heart was racing. His lips were touching Potter's ever so slightly and he breathed in his breath.

"You drive me mad, you know that?" Potter said against his lips. "I love you," Potter said.

_What?_

Potter kissed him. Electricity rushed through his body. He knew the kiss was going to deepen, his heart was pounding in anticipation of it. He felt Potter's mouth open and Potter's tongue stroke against his own. He heard a whimpering noise and realised it had come from his own throat. "I know you don't believe me. I just want you to believe me, sweetheart," Potter murmured.

_Sweetheart?_

He was swooning and he melted against Potter, who tightened his arms around him. Potter pulled him into another kiss so deep he felt like he was going to pass out. 

And then he wasn't kissing any more. Potter had Disapparated again, thirty or forty feet away. He watched Potter raise his hand and walk through the hedge, which opened for him and closed behind him.

"Potter!" He shouted, sprinting after him and leaping through the wards after him, stumbling out into the narrow tarmacced road beyond. "Potter!"

But he was alone in the lane.

Potter was gone.


	47. Mr. Figg

**Harry**

"Where is he?" He threw the broom to one side as he landed and dismounted in one movement. He noticed a rune scrawled on the door of the side entrance they had used to come in the first time Malfoy had brought him here. He had no idea what it meant. He pushed his way into the house, strode through the vestibule and shouted. "Malfoy!"

An Elf appeared and came toward him timidly. "Please—Mister Potter should lower his voice—"

"Not likely," he snapped. "Now where is he?"

The Elf just gazed at him reproachfully and faded away without answering.

_Dumb creature._

He pushed open doors as he went. No Malfoy in the room where they had eaten yesterday. No Malfoy in a stately dining room. No Malfoy in—

He stopped.

Some sense told him there was a human presence here.

It was a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in dark wood. An enormous desk sat by the window. And in the middle of the room was a large green leather sofa and lying on it, under an eiderdown, was the silver-blond head of Draco Malfoy.

"Malfoy!" He shouted, marching in and slamming the door behind him.

Malfoy sat up, the eiderdown falling away. "Potter?" Malfoy said sleepily. His hair was messy and falling over his face.

He took out his wand and pointed it at Malfoy.

Malfoy's eyes went wide with shock. He raised his hands in surrender.

"What was that potion?"

Malfoy looked back at him silently.

"What was in it, Malfoy? I know you did something to it."

He had the strange impression that a look of terrible sadness was passing over Malfoy's face, but then Malfoy raised his hands and pushed his hair back from his face, and when he looked at him again his eyes were very cold and blank.

"I was just trying to help you."

"Stop lying."

"I'm not lying."

He was so angry he could feel himself trembling. "Tell me," he hissed.

Malfoy looked like he was about to say something, but then he cut himself off, blinked rapidly several times, and just looked at his hands, gripping the eiderdown.

"Ever since I've been in this house, these nightmares have been getting worse and worse," he said. "What are you doing to me? Trying to drive me mad? Is that it?"

Malfoy didn't reply.

"Answer me!" He bellowed, and then the sofa burst into flames.

It went up like a oiled cotton ball. He staggered backward.

_No—_

_No, no, no._

He found himself on the floor and realised he had backed into a small table and lost his balance.

_Malfoy—_

House Elves had appeared and were swarming over the sofa, putting the flames out. The room was filled with thick, acrid smoke which made his eyes water and caught in his lungs.

_Did I—_

But Malfoy wasn't there. He wasn't on the sofa, and he wasn't anywhere else in the room. He got up and staggered toward the door of the library. "Malfoy? Er—"

"Mister Potter will please go upstairs to Master Draco's room." It was one of the Elves—Snopes, he thought—and it had fixed large, baleful eyes on him. The perfect calm of the Elves clashed horribly with the smouldering sofa. Everything felt so surreal he wondered for a moment if this was another nightmare.

"Go upstairs," one of the Elves said in a tone that was almost sharp.

He walked out of the library, feeling as though he might faint.

_I didn't mean for that to happen._

_How did that happen?_

_Did I do that?_

While he climbed the stairs to the second floor, he closed his eyes for a brief moment and prayed, with every fibre of his being, for this to end.

_Asleep._

_Awake._

_It's all a nightmare now._

_Please—let it stop._

_I can't take much more of this._

He made it to Malfoy's room. The doors were open and he could hear murmurs of voices talking. As he entered, he saw Malfoy talking to Snithwithington. The Elf saw him enter and immediately faded away.

"Er—" he said, stopping in his tracks.

_Maybe Malfoy did it._

"Sit down," Malfoy said, casting a glance at him.

_He set the sofa on fire._

T _o make it seem like I did it._

"No," he crossed his arms.

_He put all this Muggle stuff in here._

"Sit down or I will  _make_ you," Malfoy hissed, turning around on the sofa and meeting his eyes. The silver in Malfoy's eyes flashed.

_He's trying to drive me mad._

He gripped his wand tighter. "Try it."

_He wants me locked up in St. Mungo's._

"Potter," Malfoy said, his voice tight. "You're in my ancestral home. I am the scion of Malfoy. I have absolute power here. If I wanted to control you, believe me, it would be no more difficult than lifting my little finger."

_He's the one who set those wizards on me._

"Don't threaten me," he replied, shifting his wand to a more prominent position on top of his crossed arms. _._

"Don't  _immolate me_ ," Malfoy returned, rising from his seat. "I can't believe what I just saw. Potter, something is seriously wrong. What just happened is not normal for an adult wizard."

_Not Ginny and Neville._

_Maybe Ginny and Neville were trying to save me from them.._

"Why did you set your own sofa on fire?" He threw back. "I've got you rumbled, Malfoy. Your little game doesn't fool me."

Malfoy's eyebrows flew up and he just stared at him for a few moments. Then he shook his head and continued, "Snithwithington just told me what you were doing last night. You went flying, and—"

"I was just practicing the Wronski feint," he replied dismissively.

"You're going to get yourself killed!" Malfoy shouted. "And me too, while you're at it!"

Everything went woozy.

"Oh my—" Malfoy's voice was distant.

Then everything went black.

"Potter," Malfoy's voice was saying. "You're alright. You're fine."

_You're alright, sweetheart._

_You'll be fine._

"You just fainted, that's all."

He opened his eyes. He was lying on the sofa where Malfoy had been sitting. Malfoy was sitting on the coffee table next to it, looking down at him intently.

"What do you need?" Malfoy said. His voice was quiet.

He felt very exposed suddenly.

Malfoy's silver eyes were searching his face, looking at him all over.

_Go away._

_That's what you can do._

He closed his eyes. He turned his head so when he opened his eyes, he was looking at the velvet upholstery of the sofa and not at Malfoy. Finally he said, "All I want is what I've been asking for for the past three days. Get me the Death Eaters."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Malfoy stand up quickly, and take a few steps away and turn his back to him.

"And let me talk to my friends," he said. "I asked you last night."

"And if they try to capture you again?"

"None of your fucking business."

Malfoy didn't say anything. He walked out through the doors of his bedroom and didn't come back.

_Finally._

He got up and walked out of Malfoy's room. The sun was coming in through the windows along the hallway. It was a blazing summer's day. Outside the trees and sky were vibrant. Everything seemed to be bursting with life, but he felt bleak.

_I'm alone._

He left Malfoy Manor and walked down the steps outside the door toward Malfoy, who was waiting for him. Malfoy set off across the wide green lawn.

_I'm scared._

It could happen again at any time.

And nothing could stop it.

*

"It is time for Harry to return to his own world now." Mr. Figg looked down at Harry. "Wouldn't you like to live in a new family? With lots of other children to play with?"

He glared at Mr. Figg and moved closer to Aunt Petunia. Her hands clasped his shoulders tightly.

"Now, Petunia," Mr. Figg said pleasantly, and smiled at them both. "You knew this day would come."

Aunt Petunia's voice shook. "I don't believe what you wrote in that letter. My sister would never have left her son to me."

"My dear," Mr. Figg said. "You're a  _Muggle_. What do you know of the ways of witches and wizards?"

Aunt Petunia bit her lip as if she was stifling something she wanted to say.

"I remember  _your_  letter, Petunia," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye. "Many Muggles wish to learn the secrets of magic. But that was not your destiny."

Aunt Petunia had flushed a dull red colour and she was staring at the ground, her lips pursed hard. Aunt Petunia hands were gripping his shoulders, hard. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed as hard as he could.

"Is that Mr. Figg?" He whispered.

Aunt Petunia raised her eyes to Mr. Figg. "You'll never take him," she hissed.

"Won't I?" Mr. Figg said, sounding amused.

"Come on, Harry," Aunt Petunia said, taking his hand and holding it tightly. "Let's go. We're going on holiday," she said to Mr. Figg, raising her eyes boldly to his.

"Are you?" Mr. Figg said in the same amused tone. "Where to?"

"M—Mallorca," Aunt Petunia said.

Mr. Figg smiled richly. "Ah. A popular spot," he smiled down at Harry. "Do you like it there?"

He nodded fearfully.

"I'm disappointed to hear you are trying to take Harry out of the country, Petunia," Mr. Figg said. "That is not a wise decision, especially after I made my wishes clear."

"What right do you have to him?" Aunt Petunia hissed. "He's my flesh and blood."

Mr. Figg smiled even wider this time. "Flesh and blood? That's not everything, my dear. There are other forces more powerful."

"What, like you?" Aunt Petunia spat scornfully.

He had never seen Aunt Petunia being brave like this. Her thin body was as taught as a bowstring, her shoulders thrown back, her jaw set.

Mr. Figg chuckled. He reached down and plucked an agapanthus flower from the border. He smiled at them in turn over it, contemplated it for a moment. And then the flower burst into flames.

He screamed out loud.

Mr. Figg shook his fingers. The flower evaporated into ash and fell to the ground. "Now," Mr. Figg said. "Give me the boy."

"Harry, run," Aunt Petunia whispered, and they ran. He let go of her hand so he could run faster. They were heading for the car. Aunt Petunia got in and he got in the back. She turned the key in the ignition several times, but it wouldn't start.

He peeked out the window. He could see Mr. Figg following them, slowly.

Finally the engine came to life and Aunt Petunia put her foot to the floor and swung out wildly into the street with a screech of tyres.

Uncle Vernon came running out into the street, screaming. "'Tunia! 'Tunia!"

He didn't have his seatbelt on and he was bounced onto the other side of the car as Aunt Petunia shifted gears and roared up the suburban street. As they turned the corner out of Wisteria Lane, he saw Mr. Figg standing there in the shadow of a tree, arms folded, watching them.

*

The car blew a tyre on the motorway. Aunt Petunia swore, but didn't stop driving.

Then a second tyre blew with a resounding bang. Aunt Petunia swore again. And then the last two tyres on the car exploded almost at the same time, making both of them scream. Aunt Petunia sat there, breathing harshly, her hands trembling on the steering wheel. She was looking all around her, around the car.

He knew who she was looking for.

Mr. Figg.

"Get out," she said. "Get out of the car."

They climbed over the traffic barrier and down a scrubby slope which led into a stretch of open countryside with several clumps of trees in the distance. Aunt Petunia slipped going down the slope and he helped her up. She took his hand and started to march toward the trees. He walked faster to keep up.

Then they both heard it.

_Weeeeee-oooohhhh_

_Weeeee-oooooohh_

It was a police siren.

"Oh, god," Aunt Petunia breathed. "Come on, Harry. Faster. Into those trees."

Aunt Petunia did not run much, so it took her a little while to catch up with him. "There—" she pointed to a large clump of bushes. "Get under there, Harry. Crawl inside."

He started to, but stopped, scared, and looked back at her. "What's going to happen?"

She was kneeling on the ground, trying to push him deeper into the bush. "I've been trying, Harry. I've been trying but I can't get in touch with her. She's the only one who can help us now."

Something clicked in his mind. "Is she from Dubrovnik?"

Aunt Petunia stared at him. "How did you know… she…" Aunt Petunia gulped. "No, sweetheart. She's… English. She just… goes there sometimes."

"When will she come?"

She was kneeling on the ground, trying to push him deeper into the bush. He realised she didn't know. "Just hide, sweetheart. Hide yourself and don't come out for anyone. Alright?"

He crawled in. "Aren't you coming?"

"I'll—I'll be back, sweetheart. I'll be with you in a minute. Just be a good boy and wait."

And then she was gone.

He crawled in as deep as he could. Leaves brushed against his face. His hands and knees were covered in dirt. He curled up into a ball and crouched there, kneeling, barely daring to breathe.

He could hear the sirens getting louder. A blue flashing light. He heard adult voices. He heard footsteps coming closer.

His heart was pounding. Should he run?

A flashlight beam. Feet in big, solid shoes. "Harry?"

It was not Aunt Petunia. It was not Uncle Vernon.

The feet crouched down and knees hit the ground, then a grown up's arms and a face he didn't know. He knew the uniform, though. It was a police officer. "Yeah, he's in here."

Then a second pair of knees knelt down, clothed in trousers, and then a long, silver beard swung into sight and began to lower to the ground in coils.

Mr. Figg.

"Hello, Harry."

He screamed, and then the bush burst into flame.

There was shouting, and he felt himself being drawn forward — as if an unseen force was dragging him. It was impossible. He screamed and kicked and tried to cling on the branches above him. He wasn't being burned. He never did get burned.

But he was dragged out of the bush, and then hands were half-picking him up and taking him away from the bush. He screamed for Aunt Petunia, and then his mouth sealed itself shut. He tried to scream but he couldn't make a sound. His voice didn't work.

He kicked Mr. Figg as hard as he could in the shin and broke into a run. He got no farther than a few steps and then he felt, unbelievably, his body turn against his will and march itself back to Mr Figg's side. Mr. Figg was wearing normal clothes now, instead of fancy dress. He looked down and smiled at him, a big smile, then turned to the police officer. "I'm a friend of the family," Mr. Figg said, one hand firmly on his shoulder. "I'll be taking him home now."

The world went black. He knew he was falling, and then he knew nothing more.

*

"There you are," Mr. Figg said, opening the door to Number Four, Privet Drive, even though only Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had a key.

When he didn't walk in himself, Mr. Figg pushed him.

He had woken up a few moments ago and he felt woozy and disoriented. He turned and asked foggily. "Where's Aunt Petunia?"

Mr Figg smiled. "She's gone on holiday, Harry. Your whole family has gone on holiday. And soon you will be going to live with a new family. Wouldn't you like that?"

"No."

He chuckled. "Of course you would. Go inside now. I'll be back later to collect you. Oh, and... try to control your magic, Harry. We don't want you burning the house down, do we?"

Mr Figg shut the door and he heard the lock turn and click into place.

His legs gave way suddenly. He called for Aunt Petunia, but the house was as silent as a tomb.

Up ahead, he saw the door of the cupboard under the stairs. It was a small space where he went sometimes when he felt worried.

_I will be safe there._

He had to crawl toward it on his belly at first, but gradually his legs came back and he limped over to it, closed the door and lay down on the floor.

_I've gone mad._

He lay there for a long, long time, waiting for Aunt Petunia to come.

But she didn't.


	48. Come Here

**Draco**

He walked out of his room, leaving Potter lying there on the sofa.

_Don't cry._

_Don't let him see you cry._

The fire had singed off his green silk pyjamas. Only a few burnt scraps of the material had been left when he Apparated into his bedroom.

_Thank Hecate I wasn't still wearing the tank top._

He had that folded up in the pocket of his Adidas track top.

_It's a miracle I escaped with my hair intact._

It was easier to be flippant than face the fact that he had barely escaped with his life. One moment Potter had been staring at him in rage, and the next he had been engulfed. His conscious mind had not even registered what was going on until he found himself on the floor of his bedroom, coughing from the one searing blast of heated air he'd breathed in. He'd Disapparated with the instantaneous instinctive reaction that didn't inform the conscious mind of what it was doing until several seconds after the fact.

_Anywhere but the Manor, I would be toast._

_Literally._

He could just imagine his mother's face if she knew what had happened.

_Your ancestral home provides unparalleled protection._

She always made it sound like a sales pitch for insura1nce. The amount of time he'd had to sit there and listen to lectures about how much the stupid estate could protect him…

_Hecate wept with boredom._

So he could just picture her smug satisfaction to hear that he had finally learned his lesson and experienced the protective powers of ancestral magic firsthand.

_Yeah._

_As if I'm going to tell her._

_As if I'll tell a living soul._

He knew that the protective powers of his home had held off the heat of the fire just long enough for him to Disapparate without being burned. The fire had ripped through his pyjamas like they were nothing, but his skin hadn't even felt the heat. And yet he'd seen the flames, seen Potter's stricken face through them.

_Hecate wept._

By the time he got outside, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely fill his pipe.

_Thank Hecate I took this upstairs yesterday._

By the time Potter came out through the door, scowling, with his wand in his hand, he had managed to take the edge off. He started walking back toward the southern boundary, Potter following him wordlessly.

_Just forget about it and move on._

_Potter didn't do it on purpose._

_He's doing massive uncontrolled magic, that's all._

_That's not worrying at all._

_Hecate wept, I_ really  _don't feel like dealing with Potter's problems right now._

There was just no point. Potter point blank denied there was anything wrong, and all that happened was Potter got angry and accused him of something ridiculous, or just rejected him outright. Seeing Potter's face turn away from him in disgust or apathy…

Potter had  _fainted_ and he'd caught him, levitated him onto the sofa. Lying there helpless, Potter had looked young and innocent. He'd felt an intense desire to protect him, to comfort him. When Potter opened his eyes, his stomach hurt.

_And Potter's reaction?_

Potter's reaction was as if he'd woken up to see an Acromantula by his bedside, stroking his cheek with a hairy claw.

_There is another Potter…_

_My Potter._

He was shaking, but the shaking wasn't just caused by the fire. Just now when he had walked through the vestibule, he'd felt his heart start to pound just looking at the door where  _he_ had come in last night. Now they were walking toward the southern boundary where  _he_ had left last night.

_Oh, Hecate._

When he had woken up this morning, he had thought for a few moments that it had all been a dream. One of the dreams he'd always wished to have but his unconscious had never been able to deliver. Then, just as Potter raised his wand and pointed it at him, he had remembered it had actually happened. And he had realised that  _he_ was gone, and this angry, distant Potter was all he had, and he had felt a spasm of despair so overwhelming he had wanted to just crawl back under the eiderdown and stay there until  _he_ came back.

_He was Harry Potter._

_He was._

He knew because last night after  _he_ left, he had gone and checked the magical signatures. It had been Potter's signature, right there, clear as day. On top of that, there was the fact that Potter had been able to raise and lower the wards and Apparate within the grounds. He couldn't even process the implications of that. He just couldn't. He actually couldn't believe what had happened. It was like in his mind there was a cycle which went,

_Oh my Hecate_

_Something happened._

_Something happened that changes everything._

_Potter—came here…_

_From the future and he…_

_He…_

Every time he thought of it, he felt like he was going to swoon again as he had done in Potter's arms. His face grew hot, his heart raced and his chest filled with a strange, almost unbearable tension.

_Oh my Hecate…_

And he couldn't stop thinking of it. Even when he'd been arguing with Potter, all he could see was  _his_ face,  _his_ eyes, and he could feel the ghost of  _his_ kiss on his lips. The first time, when Potter had kissed him on the sofa. The second time, when Potter had kissed him in the field. He couldn't help reliving it over and over again, each and every thing Potter had said and done.

And then the cycle of wonder would begin again.

_Something happened._

_Something happened that changes everything._

He glanced back at Potter and suddenly he wanted to kiss him so badly he felt like he was going to explode. He turned back around and bit his lip.

_Don't look at him._

_That is not_ him.

_That's not my Potter._

_Oh, Hecate._

The way Potter had slid onto the sofa and said,  _Come here._ The way he had leaned over and kissed him like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way Potter's fingers had come up to frame his face and Potter had placed his lips gently, reverently, the way he had breathed,  _Malfoy_ , the way his lips had parted ever so slightly, the way Potter's hands had slid into his hair when he had opened his mouth in return. The sheer, physical shock of tasting Potter's mouth which sent waves through his body. The breathtaking intimacy, so delicately offered.

_Oh my Hecate._

Then Potter had looked at him and tucked his hair behind his ear. Then Potter had embraced him, fully, unembarrassed, as if he'd done it a hundred times before, and murmured into his ear. And all he wanted was to push Potter back on the leather sofa and kiss him so thoroughly he forgot his own name. All he wanted was to feel Potter underneath him and hear that little sound Potter had made when he first kissed him, a little  _moue_  which sent shivers through his body.

_Oh Hecate._

He took a deep breath.

_Snap out of it._

But he didn't want to snap out of it, and he didn't think he could. They were now approaching the southern boundary where Potter had kissed him with a passion he had never experienced before. That kiss had awakened feelings within him that he had never felt before. He had no idea it was possible to want someone so badly that concentration, rational thought, speech and just  _walking_  became impossible.

_I want him._

_Oh Hecate._

There was the spot—he knew it because he had stood there for some time afterward, just staring at it. He couldn't stop thinking about the way Potter had come up to him and taken his hands and  _kissed_ them before wrapping them around his neck.

_He kissed my hands._

Then, with his arms around his neck, Potter had wrapped his arms tightly around his waist and pulled him in. The more he thought about the gesture, the more romantic and sensual and gorgeous it seemed.

_I could just die right now._

The way Potter had held him, speaking against his lips, just on the edge of a kiss, in the space where desire waited on a knife edge. He couldn't think of anything more seductive. It made him want to—to—

_I want to serve myself to you on a platter._

_Oh Hecate_

_Something happened._

_Something happened that changes everything._

He realised he had reached the southern boundary. He held his hand up, the wards opened and the foliage parted to let him through. He stepped into the lane, remembering with a sudden deflating feeling how he had chased  _him_  out here last night only to realise he was alone. Definitely, entirely alone.

He was alone now, actually.

Potter wasn't there. He was a hundred yards away in the middle of the lawn, standing there with his arms crossed, head bowed.

"Potter!" He called.

_I'm losing patience here._

_One minute he demands to leave_

_The next he's standing there, staring into space._

"Potter, get a move on!" He shouted again.

Potter looked up, then started walking finally.

"Fireplace," Potter grunted as soon as he was through the wards.

He sighed heavily and took the Time Turner out of his pocket, slung it around his neck and tossed the rest of the long chain in Potter's direction. He could feel his mood plummeting into an abyss.

Potter was standing as far away as he possibly could while still having the chain around his neck.

"You  _want_  to go back to the present, right?" He asked.

Potter nodded, not meeting his eyes.

He forced himself to focus on performing the spell correctly. The Time Turner started rotating, fast, and he watched it, waiting for the moment when it stopped and they were plunged abruptly into the time stream.

_Any moment now._

The Time Turner stopped. The world dissolved into a blur. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes, trying to ignore Potter's presence in front of him, trying to stave off the utter desperation which was gripping him.

_Why._

_Why did he leave?_

_Where is he?_

_When will I see him again?_

Some part of his mind was supplying ready answers to these questions, but he didn't want to hear them. He wanted  _him_ , and he wanted  _him_ now.

It was unbearable. He couldn't stand it.

_I could…_

_I could go…_

_No, Draco, shut up._

But the thought had been thought, and it washed over his mind like a wave, engulfing everything in its path.

_I could go and find him._

_I could just leave and go find him._

He was trembling at the idea. Maybe this was how it was supposed to happen. Maybe this was how it  _did_ happen.

_As soon as we get back, Potter will be taken by Dumbledore's Army._

_That's obvious._

_Then I'll be on my own and then I can…_

_I can just go and find_ him _._

_When is he?_

_When?_

_He_ was older. He could tell that much. It was one of the things which made it even worse.

_He was…so…fit…_

_He_ was a little taller, and his jaw was a little stronger, and his arms and shoulders were a little more developed. And his hair had been glossy and his eyes clear and deep.

_How old was he?_

_Twenty?_

_Oh my Hecate._

This was torture of the worst kind. He couldn't wait two years. He knew that much. He couldn't wait two years for  _him_ to become a reality, for  _him_ to—

_You drive me mad_

For the past eighteen hours, that voice had been replaying over and over again in his mind.

_Sweetheart_

The tenderness of it had cracked something within him. Some deep reservoir of anger had cracked and run dry at those words. So many years of resentment stored away had evaporated when  _he_ had offered this.

_I love you_

Some part of him could believe that Potter could become attracted to him—physically. It was difficult to imagine, but with effort, he could achieve it. Some part of him could believe that Potter could want to— sleep with him. Again, it was difficult, but possible to conceive of. But no part of him had believed that Potter could…

_I love you_

That was something he just could not imagine.

He was hit with a sudden burst of vertigo as the Time Turner fell out of the air as they arrived back in the present moment. He grabbed it from over Potter's head, because Potter looked like he was about to be sick. Potter dropped to his knees in the grass and kneeled down with his hands over his head.

He walked away a few paces, waiting for the spinning to pass. It wasn't as bad this time as it had been last time. Perhaps because he was properly rested now, or he was just getting used to it.

_Two years from now._

_Maybe that's what happens._

In a few minutes, Dumbledore's Army were going to come and fetch Potter away, and he was not going with them. He had made his decision on that. He didn't  _care_ if he still owed a life debt to Potter, he wasn't going to go debase himself around those Gryffindors, sycophantically trying to be accepted by them.

_Fuck them._

_I'm not going._

_No-one can make me._

And now that Potter was going back to Dumbledore's Army, Potter could go chasing Servants with  _them_. Draco Malfoy was surplus to requirements, and he never needed to see a Death Eater again.

 _I can just skip the next two years and go find_ him.

_Doesn't that just make more sense?_

There was his mission, of course, but he could do that once he had Potter on his side, as he would in a couple of years. The Potter he had met last night would be only too eager to listen to him when he explained what they needed to do. The mission was simple and straightforward enough, and he was willing to do it—not for his mother, but for Sir.

_I'll do it for Sir._

_Only for Sir._

Like a window unfogging, everything became very clear suddenly.

_I'll just go._

_Should I send an owl to Mum and Dad?_

He couldn't, actually. There was really no way to contact them while the Manor was in lockdown.

_I could leave a note in Father's Gringotts vault._

_Something like that._

He would decide in a minute. It couldn't be long before they arrived to take Potter. The vertigo had passed. He looked over at Potter, who was getting back onto his feet.

_There's something wrong with him._

_But he won't accept help from me._

_He needs someone he trusts._

_Only they will be able to get through to him._

He watched Potter walking unsteadily toward him down the lane.

_He thinks he's going to get back with Weasley._

_I don't know if he realises how much she hates his guts._

He stood up straighter, looking around him, alert for any signs of attack. Nothing. In the mild May day he could feel a heat in the sunshine which promised that summer was on its way.

_Summer._

Now that he wasn't going to Dubrovnik, he felt a little twinge of regret.

_Summer on the Adriatic._

It was searing light, ancient stone streets, orange-red roofs and white stones tumbling into the blue sea. But of course he wouldn't be able to enjoy any of that if he was chasing after a bunch of zealots, trying to arrange for Potter to lose control again and send them all into the spirit realm in a fireball.

_He and I can go, later._

"Fireplace," Potter said again, coming to a stop a few paces away.

He frowned.

_Where is Dumbledore's Army?_

He never thought he'd be anxiously waiting for that pack of rabid dogs to arrive, but now he was impatient. At any rate, he would have to play along until they showed up. "The car's this way," he said.

Potter didn't move. "I don't want to get in a car."

He gaped, then pursed his lips. "Alright. How do you want to travel, your highness?"

"Nothing Muggle," Potter said.

_So I guess he wants to get caught now._

Anything magical Potter did would only make him that much easier to find by anyone tracking him.

"Why don't you just cast a Patronus and use it to message them?"

Potter glared at him, then walked away.

_Where is he going?_

_Can he not cast a Patronus charm with someone watching?_

He saw Potter hop over the sty into the field where they had travelled through time two nights ago.

_The field…_

He didn't know, but maybe, just maybe, that field was where the seeds had been planted for  _his_ feelings to change. His chest was tight again. He held the Time Turner in one hand, thinking of the moment when he would travel two years into the future and start searching for  _him._

_What should I say in the letter?_

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_I will be using the Time Turner to skip the next two years as I have discovered them to be unnecessary. I will see you again the year 2000._

He couldn't really think of a good excuse for why he would need to skip over two years. Maybe something would come to him.

_Maybe I won't tell them._

_Mum will be furious._

_She might even try to come after me._

_I bet she's breaking out in hives just because I have the Time Turner unsupervised._

_She doesn't trust me an inch._

He was itching with impatience. He didn't know what was taking Dumbledore's Army so long. It hadn't taken them more than a few minutes to locate Potter every time he'd been out in the open before.

_Come on._

_Just hurry up and take him away!_

He heard footsteps then, and saw Potter trudging back along the lane toward him, looking dejected in the extreme.

"And?" He asked, although he did not expect a coherent response.

Potter just glanced at him and muttered, "I need to make a Firecall."

_Could he…_

_not produce a Patronus?_

Potter did look absolutely miserable. He was hanging his head like a kicked dog.

_Oh Potter…_

His stomach hurt just looking at Potter, and he felt the desperation come over him again. He took himself sternly by the scruff of the neck.

_That is not him._

_Potter doesn't care about you._

_He doesn't want your sympathy._

"Fine," he snapped. "The car is this way."

"No cars," Potter crossed his arms and glared at him.

He took a deep breath and prayed for strength. "It's your choice, Potter. You can come with me in the car or you can stay here until your mates find you. I doubt it will be long."

Potter set his jaw and glared back at him.

"Fine," he replied. "Bye." He turned on his heel and marched back to his car, which was still where he had parked it. He and Potter had only been away twelve hours or so. They had actually left in the middle of last night, but he had brought them forward to the following day to line up with the time they left the past and prevent even more time lag.

He looked over the car carefully, checking for damage.

_Did anyone hurt you, baby?_

It was an imported Dodge Viper and it had been his 18th birthday present.

_No, you're fine…_

He came around to the bonnet, and that was when he saw the rolled-up piece of parchment which had been stuck underneath the windscreen wiper.

_Hrmm._

He had a feeling he knew who it was from. He hadn't been able to resist the vanity plates: DRACO M.

_I'm sure they assumed it's a modified magical car._

He unrolled the parchment.

_Dear Harry,_

_Delighted to see that you and Malfoy have finally found each other. We all know how happy that will make him. We're off to Albania now to clean up your mess and finish the job properly. Kisses, Ginny and the DA._

He sighed.

_Fuck._

_I'm stuck with him._

He closed his eyes.

_No._

_Just… no._

If Potter wanted to make up with his mates so much, he could bloody well take this letter and get himself to Albania under his own steam. He tucked the letter back under the windscreen wiper, took hold of the Time Turner and nodded decisively.

_I know what I need to do now._

_There's been a change of plans._

_Mum, Dad, see you in a couple of years._

He took out his wand and cast the spell to turn the hourglass 730 times.

_Bye, Potter._

_You'll be seeing me._

_You'll definitely be seeing me._

/ / /

This time he stepped out of the time stream with barely any ill effect.

_I'm getting better at this._

He felt a big smile come over his face.

_Yes._

_Yes!_

He let himself in through the wards. He just wanted to check in at home before he went looking for  _him_. He would need to be careful and make sure Mum and Dad didn't see him, but that should be manageable with a couple of white lies to the Elves.

He broke into a run, unable to wait any longer. The faster he ran, the better he felt, until he was within sight of the house and that just spurred him on even more. He reached the family door, breathless, happy and his heart pounding with freedom.

_Mum would go spare if she knew._

_I would never see another Time Turner._

The dangers of messing about in the time stream had been made clear to him through many, many lectures over the years. He'd never had unfettered access to a Time Turner like this, and he knew Mum wouldn't have done it if she had had a choice. If she hadn't had to stay with Father, locked down in the Manor.

He bounced up the steps and turned the door knob to go inside. Everything looked more or less the same. No—it looked identical.

Snithwithington appeared and his eyes opened wide when he saw him. He kneeled down and whispered quickly to the Elf, "Snithy, don't tell mother and father I'm here, alright? I'm on a secret mission from the past. They mustn't know I'm here."

The Elf's eyes widened even further, but he nodded silently, and then faded away.

_Good old Snithy._

_Discrete as ever._

He straightened up and made his way to his room. He might have some new clothes to wear. What was in fashion in the year 2000? He couldn't imagine. It sounded so futuristic.

_Where are you?_

_In London? Somewhere around Diagon Alley?_

_Or up in Hogsmeade?_

_Where will I find you?_

He was annoyed to find that someone had repainted his bedroom doors in a rich purple, which he supposed was fine, but he preferred his baby blue.

_Where's my bitch sign?_

He frowned and pushed the door open, stepping in.

_I wonder what new gadgets I have._

_Ooh, maybe there's a new Suede album out!_

But all of these thoughts were stopped in their tracks, because sitting there on his sofa, watching telly with his feet on the coffee table, was Harry Potter.


	49. Professor Cat

**Harry**

 

_I can’t produce a Patronus._

He had been standing here in this field for ten minutes, trying to cast a Patronus. But every time he tried to think of a happy memory, all he could see was Aunt Petunia’s face as she tried to push him deeper into the foliage.  

 _That’s not real._  

He raised his wand arm, closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. He focused on picturing Ron’s face. “ _Expecto patronum_!” He shouted. But all he could think of was how Ron had refused to listen to him in Gryffindor Tower when he tried to explain how important it was to go and hunt down the Death Eaters.  

He raised his wand arm, closed his eyes again and told himself to focus. He thought of Hermione’s face. “ _Expecto patronum_!” He shouted. But all he could think of was Hermione sobbing,

_I needed my friends_

_I needed to talk to them_  

Hermione had known Ginny and Neville were together and she hadn’t told him. 

He stood there, his chest heaving. 

_I can’t do it._

He tried to search back in his memory, looking for something—anything—but all his happy memories featured Ron, Hermione or Ginny. 

_All my happy memories are tainted._

_I’ll never cast a Patronus again._

He closed his eyes and tried to think of someone else who had made him happy? 

 _Professor Lupin?_  

Lupin had taught him how to produce a Patronus. No, he was still angry with Lupin for getting himself killed and leaving behind an orphaned baby. 

_Sirius?_

He tried to think of Sirius, of the happy times they had had together, but all of a sudden those times seemed very few. And then he realised something. Malfoy had told him they had travelled back in time two years. 

_And it’s summer now._

That would mean that for the past two days he had been not only living in the first few days or weeks after Sirius’ death, but also living in the house of the woman who had murdered his godfather—Sirius’ own cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange. 

He felt nauseous. 

_I hate him._

_I hate Malfoy._

He kicked the ground, hard, until clods of earth flew into the air. 

He didn’t really feel that much better, but at least it took his mind off the fact that he was fairly certain he was going mad. 

_I think that’s what’s happening._

_I’m going mad._

_Slowly but surely._

_Or quickly but surely._

He turned and started walking back to Malfoy. 

*

“There you are, my dear. Now, you must eat.”

He held the cat tighter, and shook his head. Shepherd's pie and peas and carrots, all from the freezer. Ribena.

"And there's trifle if you finish all that, love.” 

“When is my auntie coming back?"

Mrs. Figg had wrung her hands, and cast about the room as if the walls held an answer. She always did that.

"Oh--you--I don't know, my love."

He stared at the food for a few more minutes, stroking the cat all the while.

“It's not fresh." 

"I'm sorry dear?" Mrs. Figg had returned in a high, anxious voice.

"My auntie," he had informed her, "doesn't buy frozen food. It's not fresh."

He looked at the plate, steaming in front of him, and stroked the cat. It rubbed its head under his chin and its whiskers tickled him.

"It has chemicals in," he said with finality, and turned to face the telly. Ready Steady Cook was on. He and Aunt Petunia always watched Ready Steady Cook together.

*

"My love..." 

_I'm not your love!_

He stroked the cat. It stayed with him always, the cat. It was warm in bed. He had decided to stay here until Aunt Petunia came back. So he was in bed, in his bedroom, with the cat.

_I can't come out of bed because I'm ill._

“I’ve brought you some porridge. Just like your auntie makes it. Wouldn't you like some?"

He turned away from her, toward the wall, taking the cat with him.

"I make the porridge.” He said.

_I hate you!_

"Alright, dearie, you can make it yourself if you prefer. That's quite alright. Come, let's go downstairs now."

"I can't," he said, patiently, "I'm ill."

"Doctor says you're not ill, my love. Doctor says you're quite alright.”

He hugged the cat tightly. It squirmed a little, and dug its hind claws into his arm, but then relaxed and nuzzled its head against his chin.

"I _am_ ill," he insisted.

"But my dear...there is someone downstairs who is," she paused and coughed, and continued, "...very hungry and would just love you to make porridge for them."

_Aren't you helpful?_

_You're Auntie's helper, aren't you?_

He turned onto his back with a sigh. “Alright."

*

"Here you are, dearie," said Mrs. Figg, half-putting him down in a chair, "Oof! You're heavy.” Mrs. Figg had to half-carry him down the stairs.

_See? I am ill. I can't even walk._

"Hello, Harry."

He looked at Mr. Figg and hugged the cat.

”How are you feeling?" Mr. Figg asked.

“I want my auntie back,” he said. 

Mr. Figg laughed, and Mrs. Figg laughed.

He stroked the cat's head while he waited for them to stop laughing.

"Where's the porridge?" He asked once they had.

He had made the porridge then, slowly mixing the milk with the oats over a low flame and stirring, stirring, stirring until it turned thick.

_It will burn if you don't keep stirring._

Stirring, stirring, stirring. The cat had stayed by his chair while he did it. His arm got tired but he kept stirring. And he started falling asleep, so he had to hold one of his eyes open with his free hand. 

"It's ready now," he said finally. He wanted to serve it but Mrs. Fig did it instead. She and Mr. Figg added golden syrup to their bowls. 

"I always have treacle," he informed her. He'd been hoping she wouldn't have treacle there, but she did, and she put a large spoonful on his porridge. Mr. and Mrs. Figg began eating. 

"Now, Harry," Mr. Figg, "this is very good porridge.”

“Thank you," he had said, and picked up the cat. 

“Aren't you going to eat any?" Mr. Figg had asked.

_I can't eat. I'm ill._

He shook his head. The cat was warm and he could feel her heart beating, very small, under her fur. 

"Now, Harry," Mr. Figg had said, leaning forward, "Mrs. Figg has told me that you have refused food for several days.”

Mr. Figg had blue eyes that always seemed to be smiling, no matter what he said. He stared back at Mr. Figg, stroking the cat's head.

“Why did you take my auntie away?”

Mr. Figg had smiled, stirred his porridge.

“Your aunt is ill. She was taken to hospital. Your uncle has taken your cousin away on holiday. So this is a good time for us to get to know each other.” 

He stared at Mr. Figg. He looked like Father Christmas, but if Father Christmas had been slimming for a long time and now was only very thin. He said so.

Mr. Figg laughed, and laughed, and Mrs. Figg laughed too.

"You're not going to live with your aunt and uncle again, Harry."

The cat dug its claws into his arm, then, and jumped away onto the floor.

Mr. Figg chuckled, "You squeezed her rather hard. And she doesn't like that. Do you, my dear?"

Mr. Figg looked at him, his eyes still smiling. “You’ve been doing uncontrolled magic, Harry,” Mr. Figg said in a scolding voice, wagging one finger at him. “You almost burned your Muggle family alive. Now, we can’t have that, can we? No! You must come and live with witches and wizards and learn how to control your magic.” 

The blood froze in his veins and he wanted suddenly to get up and run away, far, far away. “The fire?” He said. “I did the fire? I did that?”

“Oh, yes, Harry,” Mr. Figg said, his eyes still smiling. “ _You_ did the fire.” He was suddenly so sure that if Mr. Figg opened his mouth to join his eyes in smiling, he would see row upon row of dagger-like teeth, ready to rip him apart. 

_He's being erased, Vernon!_

"You erased me!" He shouted, getting out out of his chair, standing in the middle of the kitchen and shouting and pointing his finger at Mr. Figg. “You made everyone forget about me!” 

Mr. Figg stood up. He seemed to stretch as high as the ceiling.

"It is time, Harry."

Mr. Figg picked up the cat, tearing it from his arms. Mr. Figg threw the cat right across the room. Terror washed over him and he'd wanted to cover his eyes. As it fell, it began to stretch and grow and--

_it'sjustadreamit'sjustadream--_

the cat stretched and grew and changed, and the fear was so strong he thought he would go mad--

_\--wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup--_

* 

Mr. Figg and Mrs. Cat stood over him.

"Is he alright?" Mrs. Cat asked. 

"Just a little faint, I think," said Mr. Figg. "Harry. Harry!"

He blinked, and then he was not lying on the kitchen floor, but sitting on the chair at the table, even though he hadn't stood up or moved at all.

“That's better," said Mr. Figg. “Now, Harry. I’d like to introduce you to Professor McGonagall. She will be one of your professors when you start at Hogwarts School next year.”

He stared at Professor Cat.

_That’s not possible._

"Now, you must eat. We must have you nice and strong.”

Mr. Figg made a movement with his hand, and then the bowl of porridge with treacle was empty. And his eyes grew huge as he felt--

_My stomach--_

_—_ it was full to bursting, with something that was still hot, burning hot—

 _The bowl is empty._  

 _My stomach is full._  

"Minerva, I'm firecalling Arthur. I don't want the boy to spend another minute here.” 

His stomach heaved and he was sick all over the floor.

It was the porridge he had made. He could see the treacle. He hadn't eaten the porridge. He hadn't eaten anything since Aunt Petunia went away to Dubrovnik and left him here all alone.

_This can’t be happening._

_It can’t be real._

He laid his head down on the table. There was only one explanation for all of this.

He had gone mad. 

He had gone completely mad. 

And no-one would be able to help him any more. 

Not even Auntie.


	50. Pretty Little Veela

**Draco**

 

Harry Potter turned his head and their eyes met.   
****

He stopped dead.

_It’s him._

Potter stood up slowly, his eyes never leaving him for a moment. 

_Oh Hecate._

He looked exactly the same as he had last night, apart from the clothes.

_Yes, it’s him._

Potter’s eyes travelled over his face, travelled up and down his body, over the Time Turner hanging around his neck. “What are you doing here?” 

He stood his ground, crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side and gave Potter a smile. “Surprised?” He held Potter’s eyes even though the thrill going through him was so strong he could barely stand it. 

Potter dropped his gaze, came forward and took him by the arm. “This isn’t right,” he said, leading him by the arm toward the door. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

_What?_

He felt his stomach drop painfully, and hot embarrassment began to fill his face. 

_This isn’t how it’s supposed to go._

“Hey,” he stopped and shook his arm free of Potter’s grasp. “What’s your problem?” 

Potter looked at him and pursed his lips. “When are you from?” Potter demanded. He was blushing bright pink. 

He had a thought, and decided to say it. He smiled slowly. “You’re cute when you blush.”

Potter looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, and the blush spread even further. “Why did you come here?”

He looked at Potter and felt his mouth start to water. His heart was pounding. “I think you know why,” he said. 

Potter’s head snapped up and their eyes met for a moment.  

_Oh my Hecate._

Potter frowned then, and turned and walked away across the room, bouncing his fist across the top of the sofa as he passed it. 

His heart, which had been in his throat, sank back down slowly with a horrible feeling. 

_What?_

_What’s wrong?_

_This isn’t supposed to happen…_

He felt himself filling with shame until he was squirming with discomfort, unable to look up or left or right. 

_Where did I go wrong on this?_

But then he looked up and saw Potter leaning against the back of the sofa, slumped over and looking dejected. 

_Oh…_

He went closer, quietly, and when he got closer, he reached out and touched Potter’s shoulder, traced his arm. 

_Oh Hecate._

He touched Potter’s hand. Potter took his hand and squeezed briefly, then let it go. He stood up straight again and, not looking at him, said, “You need to leave. I’ll see you to the boundary.” 

“How old are you?”

Potter gave him a slightly alarmed look. “I’ll be twenty in a week.” 

“I was right,” he said with a smirk. 

Potter shot him a look of even greater alarm. “What do you mean, you were right? How old are _you_?” 

He grinned. “I’m eighteen.” 

Potter looked at him for a long moment. “So I was right, too.” Potter looked away for a moment, then got up and started walking. “I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t know what’s going on, but it can’t be good.”

He stood there, feeling increasingly stupid. Either he was early, and Potter hadn’t gone back to see him yet, or Potter had already gone back, and now he regretted it. 

Potter glanced behind him, saw he wasn’t following, and stopped. 

For a few moments they both stood there, at an impasse. 

“I went back in time and saw you, didn’t I?” 

_What?_

He looked up in surprise to meet Potter’s eyes. 

_Oh._

_I know that look._

“I’ve been thinking about doing that,” Potter said, still looking at him. 

He felt faint and leaned against the back of the sofa. “You have?”

Potter came and sat next to him on the sofa back. “Tell me what happened.” 

He shivered at Potter’s sudden proximity. He could feel the warmth of Potter’s body even though he was still a body’s width away. He looked at Potter and felt his eyelids going slack and dreamy. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. 

Potter watched him as he did this. Potter’s gaze was on his hand, his jaw, his mouth. 

“What happened?” He repeated Potter’s words. His voice had gone low and breathy again. 

_Oh Hecate._

“Malfoy,” Potter said. 

He couldn’t stop looking at Potter’s mouth. “Yes?” He replied distractedly, raising his eyes to Potter’s. 

_Fuck this._

He shifted over on the sofa, grabbed the front of Potter’s t-shirt and kissed him. 

Potter made a noise of surprise which reverberated through his lips. 

He felt a thrill of terror and elation go through him.

_Oh Hecate._

And then Potter grabbed hold of his face and kissed him back. 

_Yes._

All of his hesitancy from the night before was gone. Potter felt so good, smelled so good, and when he ran his tongue over Potter’s lips, he tasted so good, he couldn’t help himself. He ran his hands down Potter’s sides to his hips and pulled him closer. He felt shocked by his own boldness. 

_I’m going to eat you alive._

Potter broke the kiss, gasping, “Merlin,” and looked at him for a moment. And then, still looking at him, Potter swung his legs over the back of the sofa and let himself drop backward. 

_What—_

Lying on the sofa, Potter held out his hand to him. 

_He wants me to…_

He swung one leg over the back of the sofa hesitantly. 

“Get down here,” Potter breathed. His cheeks flushed were, his hair tousled. 

_Oh my Hecate._

He lowered himself hesitantly until he was kneeling in front of Potter. Potter sat up and reached for him. He was very still. He felt frightened—but not of Potter. 

It was just that what he felt just now was threatening to overpower him. 

"Take this off," Potter said, lifting the Time Turner over his head and placing it on the coffee table next to the sofa. 

_Oh._

Potter stroked his hair, and kissed his jaw. 

_Oh._

Potter kissed all the way up his jaw to his ear and held his neck in one warm hand. “Did you mind that I visited you?”

He shook his head, hesitantly. Then he whispered, “I wanted you to.” 

Potter looked him in the eye, and kissed his lips again, just the slightest brush of air and silk. Then he started kissing the other side of his jaw, one hand coming to rest on his waist.

He leaned his head back. “Oh,” he breathed, and he couldn’t help it. He was breathing faster now. Potter’s other hand came up to his hair.

“Malfoy,” Potter breathed into his ear. 

He couldn’t take it any longer. He pushed Potter down onto the sofa and lowered his mouth to Potter’s, closing his eyes as desire rushed up through his lips, blinding him as he felt Potter’s lips and teeth part under his tongue, and he tasted the hot and soft interior of Potter’s mouth. 

_Oh my Hecate Potter._

He was lying on top of Potter and he could feel all of Potter underneath him, in a way that made his heart race and his breath come in short gasps. Potter’s hands were on his neck and one on his back, and one of his legs was between Potter’s legs. The way he was lying against Potter’s hip—

_Oh—_

His hips flexed involuntarily, and he gasped in shock, and sat up immediately.

_Oh my Hecate._

His cheeks were burning. His chest was shuddering. 

“Oh,” Potter said, sitting up. “Look at you,” he said, stroking his cheek with one finger. Potter’s chest was heaving as well. “My pretty little veela.” Potter’s hands moved to his waist.

He closed his eyes. “Can I stay here,” he breathed onto Potter’s lips. “I want to stay here with you.” 

Potter kissed him so tenderly he felt as if Potter’s mouth was a rosebud, velvet and sweet. “You can’t stay here.”

_No._

He wrapped his arms around Potter’s neck and kissed him again. “Let me stay. Please.”

“Oh Merlin,” Potter said, kissing him again. “I want you to.”

He kissed him back. “Then just let me. They won’t miss me back there. No-one will miss me.” 

Potter’s fingers pushed his hair back from his face. Potter looked at him. His eyes were dark, his mouth red. 

_I just want him._

_Nothing else._

_Nothing else, ever._

“I need you,” Potter said, kissing his jaw again. 

He breathed out, and it came out as a sort of moan. “Oh, Potter,” he gasped, and moved to kiss Potter on the mouth.  

Potter hesitated, and then he sat back a bit. 

_What?_

He felt horribly embarrassed suddenly. Potter’s hands seemed to have left burning brands where they had rested on his waist. There was a hot, liquid sensation pooling below his stomach. 

_Fuck._

Potter’s cheeks were bright red. “He needs you,” he muttered. 

“Who?” He breathed, confused. He was very aware of how aroused he had become. He wanted to sink into the ground with mortification. 

“I know I was awful,” Potter muttered, then raised his head and looked him in the eye. “But—” Potter touched his face. “Please don’t give up on me. You were there for me when no-one else was.”

_Oh Hecate._

“I needed you then,” Potter breathed. “And I need you— _now_.”

_Oh Hecate_

Potter was kissing him, stroking his arms and leaning him back until he started to think Potter was going to climb on top of him and he was going to die of ecstasy.

_Don’t stop._

They were kissing like crazy. He whimpered.

_Please don’t stop._

“We have to stop,” Potter gasped.

“No,” he said, and pulled Potter down on top of him, waiting to feel Potter’s weight on top of him. 

It never came.

Potter was holding himself above him, half-kneeling, so that their bodies didn’t touch completely. 

So that their hips didn’t touch. 

“No,” Potter breathed. Then he sat up. 

_No._

As Potter withdrew he sat up quickly, feeling terribly exposed. He crossed his legs. The mortification was returning. 

“I’m sorry,” Potter said. 

He had never been so aroused in his life, and he didn’t know what to do with himself or where to look. 

“Malfoy?” 

_Fuck off._

“Malfoy,” Potter said. He sounded desperate. “I’d never forgive myself.”

His face was burning. “Never forgive yourself.”

“Oh—no, I don’t mean it like that—” Potter said. “It wouldn’t be right. Don’t you see?”

“It wouldn’t be right,” he repeated.

“No, no—” Potter sounded aghast. “It would be right. It is right. Malfoy, when I’m with you, I—I—but like this, it’s not…”

His heart was being twisted bitterly within his chest, and it was showing on his face. 

“Malfoy…” Potter said. 

He felt fingers brush his hair. 

“Don’t you understand,” Potter said, “how much I want you? I can’t resist you.”

He frowned and turned away so Potter wouldn’t see the hot tears of embarrassment. He wiped his hand across his eyes. “You want me to go?”

Potter said nothing. After several long moments he turned to look at Potter. Potter was staring at the knee of his jeans. 

“Do you want me to go?” He said again, more forcefully this time. 

Potter shook his head. 

“Look at me!” He snapped. 

Potter reached over, picked up the Time Turner from the table and held it out to him. 

He stood up, feeling a towering anger swoop through him. “Fine!” He shouted, swiping the Time Turner from Potter's hand and slinging it over his head.

_I’m going to Disapparate._

_I am._

Potter stared back at him, looking miserable again. 

_I hate you._

_No_

_I don’t._

_Fuck._

“What was the date,” Potter said. “The date when I visit you.” 

His jaw clenched. “Safe house. July 10th, 1996. About eight pm.” 

Potter was frowning, but he nodded. 

“Well,” he said. “Bye.” 

He found himself once more by the southern boundary, and something made him wait. 

He waited there. 

He waited.

Nearby was the spot where Potter had kissed him last night. 

He waited.

The scent of hay and roses was in his nostrils. 

It started to sink in.

_He’s not coming._

Before it could sink in any further, he raised his hand, the hedge opened before him, and he stepped out into the lane. The wards closed behind him and he collapsed to the ground and covered his face with his hands. 

*

He forced himself to get up, set the Time Turner, and go back to 1998. He didn’t close his eyes this time as the time stream flowed around him. He stared into it, trying to think of nothing. 

When he emerged into the sunlight once more, he took off the Time Turner quickly, plucked the parchment from underneath the windshield wiper, got into the car and started the engine. He watched in the rearview mirror as Potter approached. 

No more than thirty seconds had passed since he left. 

Potter got into the passenger seat. 

“Here,” he said, holding out the parchment to him. 

Potter took it from him with a skeptical expression and read it. 

He turned the key in the ignition, reversed and accelerated down the narrow lane as fast as he could. 

“What does this mean?” Potter asked after a moment, waving the letter. 

He gritted his teeth. “What part of it?” 

“‘We’re off to Albania now to clean up your mess and finish the job properly’,” Potter said. 

 _“_ What about the first part?” He said angrily. “Aren’t you curious about that?” 

“Er…” Potter sounded uncomfortable. 

“What do you think that means, Potter?” He asked. 

“Dunno,” Potter said, staring out the window. 

“Why don’t you ask me what happened last year?” He said, not knowing why he was asking. Hadn’t he suffered enough humiliation today? He was driving dangerously fast, and he knew it, but he didn’t care. “Delighted to see that you and Malfoy have finally found each other,” he repeated the words of the letter. “We all know how happy that will make him.”

Potter glanced at him with a frown. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just something you say when you want to get at someone.” 

“Get at someone? What d’you mean?” He saw the turn off ahead and made a right. Finally he had two lanes. He shifted gears and accelerated again. The car purred deeply and he felt the thrill of speed take him. He wasn’t sure if this was helping his anger or feeding it. 

“Nothing,” Potter muttered. 

Potter didn’t even seem to notice how fast they were going. 

“Get at someone,” he said. “You mean Weasley’s trying to piss you off?” 

“Yeah, probably,” Potter said, still looking out the window. 

“Because it’s really demeaning to insinuate that you like boys?” He asked. 

Potter glanced at him with a frown. “What?”

“Or because it’s demeaning to insinuate that we’re fucking?” 

“Jesus Christ, Malfoy!” Potter yelped in alarm. 

“Why are you swearing like a Muggle?” 

“What the hell did you say that for?” Potter said, his arms braced on the armrests in shock. “Oh my god, why did you say that?”

He shot Potter an evil smirk. “What, does that bother you, Potter?”

Potter was staring at him with an expression of abject horror on his face. 

He held Potter’s gaze for a second. “Do you not _like_ to think about fucking me?”

Potter put his hands over his ears. 

He burst out laughing and pushed the car even faster. 

_We all know how happy that will make him._

Well, it wasn’t making him happy. 

_Don’t you understand how much I want you?_

_I can’t resist you._

_My pretty little veela._

He was speeding but he didn’t care. He never paid his speeding tickets. 

_Your greatest enemy is not the adversary._

_Your greatest enemy is within you._


	51. The Mad Muggle

**Harry**  

_Do you not like to think about fucking me?_

He was trying to get what Malfoy had said out of his head. 

_Eurgh._

_I feel unclean._

_Make it go away._

_Oh my god, do_ not _let that become a mental image—_

As a defensive measure, his mind immediately tried to substitute someone else in that scenario. Ginny was saying, _Do you not like to—_

_Okay, stop—_

Ginny’s hard eyes looking at him critically, her ponytail swinging, arms crossed, her weight on one leg. 

_No._

_Do_ not _think about that._  

He looked around for something to distract him. There had to be some reading material here somewhere. He spotted the glove compartment above his knees and opened it.

“Potter,” Malfoy said. 

“I want something to read,” he replied shortly.

Malfoy sighed. “Fine.”

There was a sheaf of what looked like magazines in there. He reached in and pulled one out. _The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle._

He felt a strange quaver in his chest as he looked at it. He remembered seeing this comic in Ron’s room years ago. 

“Oh,” Malfoy said. He sounded a little embarrassed. “The Elves must have put those in there. It’s a new car…” he trailed off, then said. “They always used to put _Martin Miggs_ in the car for me, for when we would take long car journeys when I was little. They don’t realise it’s a kids comic, I guess…”

He looked at the front cover. It showed a witch and a wizard standing on the doorstep of a suburban Muggle home. The door was open and a man was standing just inside wearing a dressing gown and slippers. Floating in the air between the witch and wizard and the Muggle was a full English breakfast. The eggs, bacon, beans and everything else were floating above the plate, which had black squiggles around it as if it was spinning through the air. A teapot and milk jug were poised over the Muggle’s head. The witch and wizard were laughing while the Muggle stared at the dancing breakfast with huge, bugged-out eyes and stars floating above his head. 

_The mad Muggle._

The title of this issue was _Martin Miggs and the Breakfast Visit._

He frowned and opened to the first page. 

“Potter,” Malfoy said. “Where are we going?” 

“Somewhere with a fireplace where I can make a Firecall,” he said. “I don’t know how many times I’ve said that already.”

“Where, though?” Malfoy asked. 

They were driving along a motorway now and they kept passing other cars. 

“Don’t you have somewhere?” He asked irritably, not wanting to think about it. 

“No,” Malfoy said. “I don’t, actually.” 

He frowned. “Actually, I do have a place. There may still be Death Eaters there, though. So you’ll have to deal with them if there are.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him. “There are no more Servants in England, Potter. Not by this point.” 

“Good,” he said. “Then we’ll go to my house in London. Number 12 Grimmauld Place.”

Malfoy laughed. “12 Grimmauld Place does not belong to you,” he said. 

He frowned. “Yes it does. Sirius Black left it to me in his will.” 

Malfoy scoffed. “He had no authority to dispense with the property of the Blacks.”

He stared at Malfoy. “It’s my house and it has been for the past two years.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes and didn’t say anything more. 

He turned back to the comic. The issue consisted of a number of short stories. In the cover story, a witch and wizard were strolling in a Muggle neighbourhood when they noticed a delicious smell coming out of one of the windows. They went closer and saw a Muggle man inside, cooking breakfast. They waited until the man had finished making his breakfast and served it out onto two plates, ready to be eaten. Giving each other a conspiratorial look, they knocked on the door and the Muggle man answered. The witch then used _Accio_ to summon the breakfast from the kitchen and made it dance above his head. The Muggle, presumably Martin Miggs, had the pop-eyed reaction shown on the cover, and then collapsed with a scream. The witch and wizard restored the breakfast to the table and retired to the kitchen to eat while Martin Miggs was put into a straightjacket and carted away in an ambulance by a team of Muggles in white uniforms. 

He frowned. He didn’t like that one. 

He turned to the next story in the issue. This one was entitled, _Suzy Quiggle is no Muggle_. It was about a little girl in a Muggle family who was actually a witch, but didn’t realise it yet. When Suzy Quiggle wanted something, she told her mother to get it for her. If her mother tried to say no, Suzy Quiggle used her magic to make her mother get it. When Suzy Quiggle wanted something which belonged to her brother, she told him to give it to her. If her brother tried to say no, the same thing would happen again. Her family were afraid in case Suzy Quiggle got angry, because when Suzy Quiggle got angry, terrible things happened. When Suzy Quiggle didn’t get the right shade of lavender dress, she made a vase explode into a thousand pieces. 

He was starting to feel sick. He wanted to put the comic down, but he found he couldn’t help reading on. 

One day the same witch and wizard who had eaten Martin Miggs’ breakfast appeared at the door and handed Suzy Quiggle a letter inviting her to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. When the witch and wizard looked into the house, they saw that Suzy Quiggle had stuck her parents onto the ceiling because they refused to let her eat sweets for her tea the night before. The witch and wizard had a good laugh at that, but then they pasted Suzy Quiggle to ceiling as well. Suzy Quiggle started to cry. She tried to use her magic on the witch and wizard, who laughed some more and then told Suzy Quiggle she had just earned herself another hour stuck on the ceiling with nothing to do. Suzy Quiggle cried while the witch and wizard arranged everything for Suzy’s visit to Diagon Alley. They found money in Suzy Quiggle’s parents’ room to buy her school supplies. Then they let Suzy Quiggle down from the ceiling and her parents too. They cast memory charms on Suzy Quiggle’s parents so they would never know a witch and wizard had visited them, because that was infringement of the International Statute of Secrecy.

He put the comic back in the glove compartment and shut it firmly. 

Malfoy glanced at him, but said nothing, just kept driving. “Another forty minutes or so,” he said blandly. 

 

*

The door of Number 12 Grimmauld Place had several long gouges in the wood, as if someone had tried to hack their way in with a sword or an axe. The door was ajar, he noticed with a feeling of foreboding. He gestured to Malfoy. “You go first,” he said. 

Mafloy’s eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon. This is your suicide mission.” 

“Isn’t that why you’re here at all?” He said. “To protect me?” This came out sarcastically. 

Malfoy gave him a withering look, but stumped up the steps and pushed the door open. “Oh boys!” He called out. “It’s your darling Draco here. I know you’ve missed me.” He disappeared inside. 

Silence. 

He frowned. The portrait of Mrs. Black should start screaming about now. 

He waited, but still heard nothing. 

“Malfoy?” He said softly, and followed him inside. He braced himself for the screaming which would begin as soon as the portrait realised there was another intruder. 

“Yes, madam.” 

He heard Malfoy’s voice talking quietly. 

“Andromeda was permanently transfigured into a green piece of sponge, madam. Yes, Narcissa has taken to wearing the carpet as a kaftan.”

Malfoy was standing at the end of the hallway, hands in his pockets, chatting casually with the portrait of Mrs. Black. 

_Typical._

He didn’t even know why he was surprised. 

He closed the front door and locked all of the deadbolts behind it. 

“Hurry up,” he hissed at Malfoy. 

_There we have it._

_The only person who wants to talk to Draco Malfoy._

_A painting of a dead fascist._

Malfoy glanced at him with a smirk. “Yes, madam,” he said, louder, “my mother has told me how committed you are to the traditional Black pursuits of bestiality and self-congratulatory masturbation.”

He choked. 

“What was that, dear?” The portrait croaked. “I still want to see your mother. It’s been too many yea—”

Malfoy snapped the curtain closed and flounced away. “Is that old House Elf here? What’s his name again? I’m starving.” 

“What did you say to—”

Malfoy gave him a disdainful look. “It’s just a portrait, Potter. It can’t understand you. It’s not a real person. It will say whatever it thinks you want to hear. Or with some, like that hag, whatever it thinks you _don’t_ want to hear. It’s just nonsense.” 

He frowned. “That’s not true. When I was—” he was about to mention Phineas Nigellus and the information he had given them, but stopped himself. 

“Been talking to portraits, Potter?” Malfoy said airily. “Well, I suppose it would make for better conversation than with Ronald Weasley. But then again, almost anything would. A rock. A clump of moss. Half a moldy orange—”

“What are you talking about?” He snapped. 

“Oh, _nothing_ , Hecate… don’t mind me, I’ll just go and switch myself off until you need me to service you again, shall I?” Malfoy flipped his hair back over his shoulder. 

He rolled his eyes, pushed past Malfoy and made his way to the sitting room where he knew there was a fireplace. There was a box of Floo powder on the mantlepiece. He was just reaching into it when he realised—

_I need to talk to Hermione._

_And I have no idea where she is._

Ever since he had seen that note from Ginny saying they had all gone to Albania, he had felt sure that Hermione had not gone with them. Hermione had not been there the other night when Ron, Ginny and Neville came to find him outside of Malfoy Manor. He had the feeling there was a reason for that. 

_I need to call her house._

He felt a sudden aversion to calling the Burrow to check if she was there first. The idea of facing Mrs. Weasley just now did not appeal to him at all. No, he would try Hermione at her house. 

_I need a Muggle phone._

He left the sitting room. “Malfoy!” He called. “Change of plan…”

“In here,” Malfoy’s voice came to him from the kitchen. 

He walked in to find Malfoy sitting there eating a sandwich at the kitchen table. 

“Where did you get that?” He snapped. 

Malfoy glanced at him. “Kreacher, Harry Potter’s here.” 

_Oh._

_Right._

Kreacher hurried out of the pantry, his arms full of sandwich supplies. He dropped into a bow when he saw Harry. 

“Hi, Kreacher,” he said wearily, and sat down at the table. He was pretty hungry, he supposed. “I need a Muggle telephone,” he said to Malfoy. 

Malfoy looked at him. He was still chewing. 

“I’m just going to eat and then leave again,” he said. “I saw a telephone box. I don’t have any Muggle money, though…” 

Malfoy, still chewing, dug in his pocket, fished something out and tossed it onto the table in front of him, where it landed with a clunk. 

_That’s a mobile phone._

Malfoy swallowed finally, took a sip of tea, and said, “Feel free to use it.” 

“Why do you have that?” He frowned at it. It looked different from the ones he had seen before. Uncl—

_Don’t._

Malfoy looked at him. “Er, to send texts? Make phone calls?” 

He looked at it. He didn’t want to use it, but he really needed to speak to Hermione. 

He sighed, picked it up and got up. 

“Yeah, don’t say thank you or anything,” Malfoy said, accepting another sandwich from Kreacher. 

He looked at it. It had a lot of buttons. He held it out to Malfoy. “How do you use this thing?” 

 

*

He sat down on the settee in the sitting room. He held the phone to his ear and the ring tone blared out once, twice—three times. 

_Please pick up._

_Please._

“Hello?” 

_Oh thank god._

“Hermione,” he said. “It’s Harry.” 

“Harry—” She sounded surprised. “I—er. Hi.” 

“Can you come to Grimmauld Place?” He blurted out. 

There was silence on the other end. 

“’Mione?” 

“Harry…” she said. “I don’t know…”

_Why not?_

_Why can’t she come?_

“Please?” He asked, his voice high and desperate. “Please, Hermione?” 

She sighed. “Give me ten minutes.” 

He sat there, watching the fireplace. 

_I just need to talk to her._

_I’ll feel a lot better if I can just see Hermione._

_She always knows how to make sense of things._

Eventually the ashes in the fireplace stirred, and started to whip themselves into a whirlwind. The whirlwind expanded, filing with green smoke and sparkles, spinning and growing, until a human figure appeared, solidified and finally stopped spinning. 

Hermione coughed and wiped soot from her face. 

He stood up. “Hermione—your hair—”

She raised her eyes to his with a slightly defiant air. “I cut it.” 

 _Cut it_ was an understatement. 

“You _shaved your head_.” 

She rubbed it with one hand. “Well, it’s buzzed,” she said. “I wouldn’t call it _shaved_.” 

He stared at her. “ _Why_?”

She looked different without hair. Very different. 

She glared. “I wanted to.” 

He shook his head. “What does Ron thin—”

Her eyes flashed. “It’s _my_ hair, Harry. _Not_ Ron’s.” 

He held up his hands. “Okay, okay.” He sat down on the settee. 

She looked at him. “You look terrible,” she said. “What on earth have you been doing?” 

He shrugged. Now she was here, he didn’t know what to say. 

She sat down on the other end of the settee. “What’s wrong?”

_Damn it._

Hermione could always see straight through him. 

“Out with it, Harry. I don’t have much time.” 

“Why?” He said, trying to divert the conversation from himself. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“I’m going to the airport,” she said. 

“You are?” 

“Yes,” she said, sniffing. 

“You’re going to find your parents?” 

She nodded. 

“But… all the Death Eaters haven’t been caught yet. Aren’t you worried there might be danger if you bring your parents back?”

Hermione was looking at the sofa. She really looked different without hair. Like a completely different person. 

Actually, she didn’t look like a girl at all. 

“I’m not bringing them back, Harry,” she said quietly. 

He stared at her. “What? You’re just visiting, or…”

But he knew that was not what she meant. 

“No, Harry,” she said. “I’m going to Australia and I’m. I’m not coming back.” 

_What._

“Not for the foreseeable future, at least,” she said, raising her eyes to his finally. “I’ve been taking courses, Harry. I sat my A-levels last summer and I have offers from several Australian universities.” 

He felt like he was going to faint. “What?” 

“I haven’t… I haven’t been happy, Harry,” she said quietly. “I don’t know if you noticed that, or…”

He remembered how Hermione had cried herself to sleep every night after Ron left. “But—Ron—you and Ron are—” He couldn’t form sentences. 

Hermione grimaced and rubbed her hands over her half-inch of hair. “Since when—” she said with difficulty, “is Ron the be-all and end-all of my existence?”

_Er…_

She looked up at him. “You never asked yourself that, did you? You never stopped to think, maybe there is something going on with Hermione?” 

“Er—”

“No,” she said. “Of course you didn’t. It’s not _normal_ , Harry, to cry yourself to sleep for _months_. Alright?” She was breathing fast now, and her eyes were bright. “It’s a sign that something is _wrong_.” 

_Something is wrong?_

_What is it?_

“What—what’s wrong, then?” He asked. 

She stood up, walked away across the sitting room. Her shoulders slumped. “I can’t explain it to you now.”

He stood up as well. “Hermione, this is—this is _bang_ out of order!” He said. He felt panicky and he didn’t know what to do or say. “You can’t do this.” 

“Did you ever think about me?” She asked. “Did you consider my feelings for one second? How demeaning it was to be like a maid to you? Organising all of your things, carrying your books, packing for you, doing your laundry—you even made me do all the cooking—”

He suddenly felt absolutely furious with her. “I—can’t—cook!” He bellowed. 

“I can’t cook either!” She shouted back. 

He stared at her in shock. “I didn’t ask you to do any of that stuff,” he said. “I didn’t ask you to come with me.” 

She stared back at him with eyes narrowed. 

“I _wanted_ to go by myself,” he continued. “I didn’t want to put anyone else in danger. I _wanted_ to fight him on my own.” 

She raised one trembling finger and pointed it at him. He could see tears shining in her eyes. “This is the thing,” she said. “That you do. Like there was anything stopping you from leaving on your own. You could have gone, Harry. If you really believed what you’re saying about not endangering other people.” She advanced on him, the trembling finger still pointing at him. “Dumbledore’s will gave you the _perfect_ excuse, didn’t it? Because now you had a way to put me and Ron on the hook without accepting the responsibility yourself.” 

He stared at her, confused beyond belief. “But Hermione. Why are you so angry. I didn’t _ask_ you to do any of that. It was totally your own choice. I was quite surprised when you—”

“You’re spotless, aren’t you, Harry? Nothing sticks. You’re always innocent. Always the victim.” 

_I have no idea what she’s talking about._

“Yeah, I _did_ all those things for you and for Ron. But the more I gave of myself, the less you noticed me and the more you took advantage. I was an idiot. I thought you really cared about me as a friend. We never fought, did we? Did you notice that? I always made peace. Because if I lost you, I’d have no-one at all.” 

He shook his head. “I don’t understand where all of this is coming from. You’re accusing me of being a bad friend, but aren’t _you_ the one who was secretly communicating with Ginny behind my back?”

Hermione’s mouth gaped in outrage. 

He remembered how Malfoy was always banging on about what had been going on at Hogwarts last year. “Were you in contact—” a strange feeling was filling him. “Were you in contact with Dumbledore’s Army?” 

Hermione stood up straighter. “The question, Harry, is why were you so determined to cut yourself off from what was going on in the world around you?”

_I can’t believe this._

“So you were,” he said. He smacked his hand against his forehead. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. All this time, my best friend has been betraying me.” 

“No, Harry. I’m not your property and you have no right to control every thing I do and who I keep in touch with.”

“Did you help Ginny take over the DA?” He asked. 

“Of course not,” Hermione said. “She did that all on her own. And it didn’t take much.” 

“ _Why didn’t you tell me this_?” He roared, feeling a strong desire to throw something against the wall. 

“Don’t you _dare_ try to blame this on me,” Hermione hissed. “You’re completely deluded.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re not a martyr, Harry. Get down off the cross already and mingle with us mortals here on the ground.” 

“What in god’s name is that supposed to mean?” 

“All of them were willing to help, Harry. They would have done anything to feel included in the effort against You-Know-Who. But you shut them out.”

“But Dumbled—”

_He said it had to be a secret._

“That’s your excuse, isn’t it? It doesn’t stand, Harry. Did you notice that in the end, it took a little help from each of us to kill Voldemort? We all played our part. But you can’t admit—”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Hermione’s on her soapbox again. God help us.” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Why are you swearing using Christian terminology? I’ve never heard you do that before.”

He ignored her. “And actually,” he said. “I _am_ a martyr. That’s what it means when you choose to die for the good of mankind.” 

She stared at him. “Your arrogance is breathtaking.” She glanced over his shoulder at the open doorway and recognition flickered in her eyes. “I guess that makes you a pretty good fit for Malfoy. You two deserve each other.” 

He turned to see Malfoy standing in the doorway, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. His silver eyes were looking at Hermione, as if assessing her. 

“Something to say to me, Malfoy?” She shot at him, standing her ground. 

Malfoy just dropped his gaze and just slunk away silently. 

“Right,” said Hermione. “I think that about sums it up.” She was turning back to the fireplace. “Good luck, Harry.” 

“Wait—” he said desperately. 

_She can’t leave._

_I need to ask her—_

“Hermione, I…” he almost felt like he was going to fall onto the carpet and beg. “I need your help.” 

She stopped, looked at him. She crossed her arms. “What?” 

“What—” he said. He coughed. It was hard to get the words out. He felt like he was going to choke. “What happened when you got your Hogwarts letter?” 

Hermione stared at him. Whatever she expected him to say, it wasn’t that. “When I got my Hogwarts letter?” She repeated. 

He nodded. His heart was pounding in his chest. 

She closed her eyes, let out a sigh. “Alright,” she said. “Sit down.” 

_Sit down… ?_

He obeyed, although his heart was just racing even more as a result. 

She sat down heavily and rubbed her hand across her head again. “All of this only came out last summer,” she said, and paused. Then she started again. “When I went to modify my parents’ memories, I obviously spent a few weeks beforehand preparing by researching and practicing memory charms on myself. To make sure I was completely ready and there was no risk of harming my parents,” she said. 

_Of course._

_Of course that’s what Hermione would do._

“Well,” she said. “To cut a long story short, I used myself as a subject because I had never had any memory charms performed on me. I was a completely clean test subject. Or… so I thought, until I started the experimentation.”

He stared at her. “What do you mean—someone had…?” 

“I discovered some very old spells which had been cast on me as a child,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Some to modify my memory. Some to modify my perception of the world, which is effectively another type of memory charm.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what happened to me when I got my Hogwarts letter. It came in the post, and I just accepted it. I just accepted that magic existed, and that there was a school called Hogwarts, and a secret world of witches and wizards underneath our noses.” She looked at him. “Do you see what’s wrong with this picture?”

He nodded slowly. “You would never just accept something like that so unquestioningly. That’s not you.” 

She looked relieved that he had understood her. She nodded emphatically. “ _Especially_ something so fundamental. It—what I discovered was that someone had put a spell on me to make me accept magic and my own magical abilities.” 

He stared at her. 

“Once I started remembering,” she said, speaking in a low, urgent voice. He realised all of a sudden that Hermione hadn’t told anyone about this. She had been keeping this a secret for almost a year. “It was like the charm unravelled and I started to remember more and more, memories that had been suppressed by the charm.”

He felt a strange prickling sensation all over his body and realised that it was gooseflesh so severe that his clothes were uncomfortable. 

“When I was a child,” she continued, “I was in therapy.”

_Therapy?_

“I had—strange—things happened around me, and they terrified me,” she said. “All sorts of things would happen and I had no idea why. I thought it was ghosts, but then I realised I was doing it, and that frightened me even more—”

“Fire.” 

The word escaped him unbidden. 

She frowned at him. “I used to, er. Melt things. Solid objects turned into liquid. Ever seen a wooden table melt?” She bit her lip. “I studied the laws of physics and I _knew_ it wasn’t possible—and—anyway,” she said. “I was in therapy. They thought it was anxiety. Once the Hogwarts letter came, though, I don’t think I ever connected the two things. I just forgot I had ever been scared of my magic. And then there’s—” she continued. “There’s my parents. You know when I tried to erase their memory to make them forget they had a daughter?” 

He nodded slowly. 

“The job was already half done,” she said. “Of course when I was there, they remembered who I was and they acted normal toward me. But when I wasn’t there…they didn’t have a daughter. I—when I was applying to universities, I needed to find my birth certificate, my passport, all that stuff. But it was _gone_ and they didn’t even understand what I was talking about,” she said, a desperate tone in her voice, as if she was desperate for him to understand her. “I even went to the public records office to look for my original birth certificate—”

“You had been erased,” he whispered. 

She nodded. “This is what they do, Harry. This is how they get Muggle-born children into the wizarding world.” 

He stared back at her, his heart racing furiously. “What happened next?”  

“I ended up forging a new set of identity papers to apply to university,” she admitted, and then shook her head sadly. “I used to believe I could change this society through my activism.” She took a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed it across her eyes. “But everything that’s happened in the past few months, and now Dumbledore’s Army… it’s the final straw. I can’t do this any more, Harry.” 

“But—” he said. “You’re a witch.” 

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “I’m not a witch.” She stood up. “Good bye, Harry.” She looked at him. “Maybe we’ll meet again under better circumstances. I hope we will, anyway.” 

He looked up at her. “Who was it?” He said. “Who put those spells on you? When you got the Hogwarts letter?” 

She looked back at him. “They’re called Muggle Liaison Officers. We read about them on that careers day in fifth year. They’re the ones who go out and recruit Muggle-born witches and wizards to Hogwarts. They’re the ones who modified my memory.” 

Then she turned, took a handful of Floo power from the mantlepiece, and threw it into the fireplace. He heard her call out her address and then step into the fire, and within a few moments she had disappeared in a whirlwind of smoke and ash. 

_I just needed to talk to her._

_I thought I would feel a lot better if I could just see Hermione._

_She always knows how to make sense of things._

_Make sense of things._

_I asked for it, didn’t I._

He stood up quickly. He needed to get moving, get what Hermione had just said out of his mind. 

He left the sitting room. “Malfoy,” he called. 

_I need to forget all about it._

_Now._


	52. Kreacher's Mistress

**Draco**

He sat in the kitchen and smoked.   
****

He could still feel Potter’s breath on his face, the way shivers had gone through his body when Potter kissed up his jaw, Potter’s hands resting on his waist. The way Potter had kissed him, leaning him back with one hand on the small of his back, one in his hair.

Last night he hadn’t been able to sleep for joy. He hadn’t felt as if he was in the real world at all. He had been lifted to somewhere else, a higher plane. Every memory—had lifted him higher. Now every one of those memories was burning with shame within him. He could barely stand himself. He wanted to rip out every part of his insides which had become tainted by Potter. 

He had never done anything like that before. 

 _Ever_. 

_I must have done something wrong._

_I did everything wrong._

_He must have noticed how inexperienced I was…_

The mere thought of it sent a hot flush of shame into his cheeks. 

_No wonder he didn’t want to…_

He tried to put it out of his mind but the moment when Potter had pushed him away replayed itself relentlessly in his imagination. The moment when Potter had picked up the Time Turner and put it back in his hand. How he had waited by the southern boundary, just waited for Potter to come... just as he had run after Potter the night before. 

_Potter didn't come after me._

His chest hurt. 

He watched the Elf as it slowly did the washing up and listened to the muffled sounds coming from the sitting room. He couldn’t hear what they were fighting about.

_I don’t want to know._

His curiosity got the better of him and he stood up and slipped into the hallway which led to the sitting room. One thing was for sure. Granger was giving Potter a real tongue-lashing. 

_Maybe this will bash some sense into that thick skull of his._

He was standing just outside the door now. When he heard his own name, he couldn’t resist making his presence known by stepping into the doorway. 

Granger had shaved all her hair off. 

_Well._

_That figures._

Granger spotted him. “Something to say, Malfoy?” 

_Not to you._

_Actually, you just go on doing what you’re doing._

_This is all stuff I’ve been longing to say to Potter for the past three days._

_But the muppet doesn’t listen to a word I say, so…_

He backed away silently and just continued listening from where he had been before. They were so wrapped up in their argument they didn’t even notice that he was still there, eavesdropping on their every word. 

It really got interesting when Potter started talking to Granger about her induction to the wizarding world. 

_Potter was reading those Martin Miggs comics._

He remembered how sick and underfed Potter had looked when he first saw him that day in Diagon Alley. His mother had been absolutely horrified. 

_Failure to thrive._

He remembered her muttering that phrase under her breath as she stormed away on some private business of her own, although what she could possibly plan to do about Harry Potter being too thin and too small he had had no idea. 

_What happened to Potter when he was brought into the wizarding world?_

Potter and Granger continued arguing, but it was clear that Potter wasn’t going to say anything specific about what was bothering him. 

He wandered back to the kitchen and sat back down at the table. The old House Elf was now wiping down the counters, painfully slowly. 

_You’ve lived too long._

_And done too much damage._

* 

“We’re leaving,” Potter said, striding into the kitchen. 

“Right,” he stood up. “There’s a flight at six pm. I think we can make it if we leave now.” 

“Flight?” 

“It’s faster,” he said. “And since we don’t have time on our side, I assume you want to get there as quickly as possible.” 

“Isn’t there a magical way to get there?” Potter asked, looking surprised.

“What part of _the Ministry of Magic has fallen_ did you not understand, Potter?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Potter said sulkily. 

“Have you never been abroad?”

Potter gave him a sullen look, but said nothing. 

“I don’t suppose you have a passport, then?”

Potter shook his head. 

He dug in his pockets and pulled out his own passport. He had left the safe house with nothing more than his passport, phone and a wallet full of cash and credit cards which he ha taken from mum’s study. Oh, and his tank top— which he now remembered had gone missing the summer after fifth year. 

_Now I know why._

He placed the passport on the sofa. “ _Geminio_.” Another passport, identical to it, appeared on top of it. He flipped to the photo page and altered the name, issue and expiry dates. 

“Place of birth?” 

Potter frowned. “Godric’s Hollow. I think.” 

He glanced at Potter. “I’ll put Gloucester.” 

“Why?”

“It’s a forged passport, Potter. You don’t have to be completely honest. Muggles are never going to know the difference, are they?” 

Potter’s frown deepened. 

“Okay. It just needs a photo. I’ll do that at the airport.” He took a deep breath. “There’s one more thing I have to do.” 

“What?” Potter said suspiciously.

_This is one thing I can do… for Sir._

_Not for Mum._

_For_ Sir. 

He sighed. “Kreacher.” 

The Elf hobbled out of the pantry and stood, peering up at he and Potter. 

“Who is your mistress, Kreacher?” 

Kreacher’s eyes shifted toward Potter, who was staring down at the Elf in horror. 

“Kreacher has no mistress now,” Kreacher said mournfully. “They slayed Kreacher’s mistress in the battle. But Kreacher will continue to serve her, he will…”

“Who?” He said sharply. 

“Mistress Bellatrix Black,” Kreacher said, a strange light of defiance in his eyes as he actually made eye contact with Potter. 

_That Elf is—_

“Mistress Bellatrix Black was my mistress!” Kreacher screeched, and lunged at Potter, leaping on him with small sharp claws and teeth gnashing. 

Potter yelled and went down, but he had already cast a summoning spell on the Elf and pulled him back so he was suspended in the air, flailing, wild-eyed, foaming at the mouth, kicking out with his little legs, trying to attack. 

“Kreacher did everything for Mistress Bellatrix!” Kreacher screamed. “Pretended to serve Harry Potter. Delivered the traitor Sirius Black! Master Regulus was my master before her, and Madame Black before that—“

Potter stood up, shaking. There were scratches on his face and arms and they were starting to bleed. “You were working for her the whole time? Sirius…”

“Mistress Bellatrix wished to kill the traitor Sirius Black,” Kreacher hissed, completely deranged now. “Kreacher assisted her. Kreacher will never pay respect to Mistress Narcissa. Never.”

“That’s enough,” he said, silencing the Elf with a quick spell. He knelt down, well away from the Elf’s claws. “Did you tell the Light that the Servants of the Dark Lord could be found in Albania?” 

Kreacher grinned evilly. 

He glanced at Potter, who was looking down at Kreacher, looking horrified.

“You betrayed your matriarch,” he said to the Elf. “You enabled the murder of Sirius Black. You must die.” He closed his eyes and thought of Sir, of how Sir had knelt before Sirius’ tomb. He thought of how Sir had given his life trying to bring the House of Black back from the brink of destruction, while this twisted creature had dedicated himself to tearing it apart. “ _Avada Kedavra_.” 

It was done. The Elf’s body had gone slack and limp. Its eyes stared at the ceiling. He floated the body into the kitchen, lit a fire in the grate, and directed the body in there. He wrinkled his nose and turned away from the sight. 

_Disgusting._

“Aren’t you going to save the head?” Potter said from the doorway. “For the hallway?”

“So you do have a sense of humour. Where have you been hiding that?” He stuck his wand in his pocket and left the kitchen, Potter stepping back to let him pass. “Let’s go.” 

“Kreacher told the DA to go to Albania,” Potter said, following him. “Is that right?”

He looked back at Potter, nodded, then opened the street door and held it open for him. Potter went through it. 

“Why would he do that, though?” Potter asked. “That just gave them an advantage against the Death Eaters.” 

He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. “Do you really think that’s true, Potter?” 

“What do you mean?”

He turned to face Potter. “You think it’s an advantage for a bunch of green frankly _kids_ to face a horde of hardened killers in a stronghold of their choosing?”

Potter stared at him. 

“I’d say Kreacher didn’t think he was giving them an advantage,” he said. “I’d say Kreacher thought he was sending them to their deaths.” 

He turned around again to face the door. He closed his eyes and spoke the words. “By my power, I claim this territory for the House of Black.” He carefully drew one drop of blood from his finger and pressed it to the door of the house. 

_It’s done._

_There you are, Sir._

_And Mum._

_You’re one step closer to reclaiming the ancestral home._

He turned away and walked past Potter down the steps, toward the car which he had parked not far away. 

“What—what did you just do?” Potter said, following him. 

“I’m sorry, Potter,” he said. “But that house never belonged to you.” He paused, patting his pockets. “Can you give me my car keys, please?” 

Potter stared at him, then tensed his jaw. “No. What did you do to that door?” 

“It belongs to my mother,” he said. “No-one will be able to enter until she does.” 

Potter stared at him for several long seconds. “Your mum wants Number 12 Grimmauld Place.” 

“No, she doesn’t _want_ it. It’s _hers_. She is the head of the House of Black.” 

“Does this have _anything_ to do with capturing Death Eaters?” Potter asked. 

He raised his eyebrows. 

_If there was ever a one-track mind…_

“No,” he said. 

“Are you completely finished here?” Potter asked. 

“Yes,” he said. 

Potter tossed him the car keys. “Then let’s go.” 

* 

Potter had gone very quiet. 

There was traffic, and they had been crawling along for almost twenty minutes. 

“What was that all about with Granger?” 

“Mind your own business,” Potter snapped. “It’s nothing to do with you.” 

“Actually, Potter,” he said, “considering you nearly roasted me to crackling this morning, and I’m going to be spending the foreseeable future in your company, I think it _is_ my business.” 

“It won’t happen again.” 

“Oh, and I should just take your word for that?” 

“Someone’s been messing around with my head,” Potter said. 

“Sorry?” 

“My head. My mind. My…” Potter trailed off. “I think someone did some kind of spell on me.”

“Someone did a spell,” he repeated. “On your head.” 

Potter shot another scowl at him. 

“You look so attractive when you make that face,” he said. “I can barely control my desire.” 

“Stop,” Potter said. “Stop making these comments.” 

“What comments?” He said airily. 

_I could never forgive myself._

His jaw tightened in anger.

Potter was red in the face. “You know what I mean.” 

“You mean like, Oh _Potter_ , do you want me on my knees—”

Potter’s face was alight with rage. “Shut up!” 

“Those kind of comments?” He said innocently. 

“Yeah,” Potter said. “I get it. You’re gay. Can you just stop rubbing it in my face all the time?” 

He raised his eyebrows and shot Potter an up and down look. “Rubbing it in your face?”

_My existence offends you, does it?_

Potter looked slightly alarmed.

“Believe me, Potter, if I was doing that…”

Potter raised his hands. “No, no, no—that’s not what I meant—”

“If got right up in your face and started—slowly—grinding—”

“Okay! Okay! I take it back! Just shut up!” Potter shouted. 

He smiled with satisfaction. “Besides. I don’t recall saying anything about being gay.”

Potter looked back at him in consternation. 

“I never said I didn’t like girls.” 

“You like _girls_?” Potter spluttered. He looked like he was going to explode. 

He rolled his eyes. “Hecate, Potter, if the existence of bisexuality has this effect on you I don’t rate your chances of surviving out there in the big, wide, grown up world of adult sexuality.” 

Potter fiddled with the aircon vents. “I really, really, _really_ don’t care.”

_You will, though._

_You will care._

_Just wait._

The anger which had been fuelling him all day was running out and starting to fade into sadness. 

“So will you see a Healer?” He asked. 

“I don’t _need_ a Healer,” Potter growled. “I need someone to find out what spells have been put on my mind.” 

_Fine._

_If that’s progress, I’ll take it._

“Will you do that as soon as we get to Dubrovnik?” 

Potter flashed a look at him. “I thought we were going to Albania.” 

“ _I_ never said that,” he replied.

“We’re going to Albania,” Potter insisted, growing red in the face again. 

“We need a place of strength,” he said. “Somewhere secure where we can get the lay of the land. I don’t know anyone in Shqiperia—Albania.” 

Potter was still glaring. 

He sighed. He had been studiously avoiding even thinking about actually having to be in contact with those psychopaths again, let alone dealing with them in close proximity. “They’ll be in Dubrovnik. Okay? Trust me. They’ll be there.” 

The traffic finally eased and he shifted gears, picking up speed. The motorway turn off was up ahead. “Let’s just get to the airport and buy the tickets,” he said. “We have that one advantage, at least,” he said.

“What’s that?” Potter asked. 

“The Servants will be travelling overland—slowly. By broom, or Hecate knows, stage coach or something. I doubt Dumbledore’s Army are going much faster.”

Potter frowned. “Why would they be doing that?”

“They’re _wizards_ , Potter. The Ministry is a non-starter, and that means the international Portkey service is a non-starter.” 

Potter muttered, “Whatever.” 

He looked ahead at the road. The last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. It wasn’t just sadness catching up with him.

_The adversary is within you._

He was starting to get a feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

It was not a pleasant feeling. 

It was the creeping suspicion that he had fucked up.

 _Badly_. 

And there was nothing he could to do take it back. 


	53. Auntie's Home, Sweetheart

**Harry**

Silence reigned in the car.

Malfoy had finally stopped talking.

Malfoy’s comments were really starting to bother him. The next time Malfoy tried it, he was going to have to find a way to shut him up. But now that silence had descended, he almost preferred Malfoy’s insinuations to being left alone with his thoughts.   
****

_I thought if I talked to Hermione, everything would be better._

_I thought it would make me feel better._

_Why are you listening to her?_

_Did you hear what she was accusing you of?_

_Complete nonsense._

Hermione’s accusations had come completely out of left field. He couldn’t believe she was trying to blame him for Ginny’s behaviour.

_Just ignore all of that…_

_She can’t really be leaving, can she?_

Just thinking of it made him feel lost and unanchored somehow. Even though for the past few days, he’d been quite angry at her and hadn’t wanted to see her, the thought that she was leaving forever—

_Where does that leave me?_

_What’s left?_

_What’s left that’s good and right and normal?_

He couldn’t think of anything left intact. He was almost starting to feel as if he had lost everything. And as a result of his conversation with Hermione, he now knew that his own mind had been corrupted. 

_That’s not what I wanted to happen._

_That’s not what I wanted to find out._

_I wanted…_

He had wanted, hoped, that she would have some simple explanation for— a simple explanation for all of the images and scenarios which had come to him over the past few days, unbidden, unwanted, and terrifying.

_I discovered some very old spells_

_which had been cast on me as a child_

_I started to remember more and more_  
****

_memories that had been suppressed by the charm_

He felt the gooseflesh rising on his arms and the back of his neck once more. But Hermione had a charm which made her remember the past as it really happened. 

 _He_ , on the other hand… 

_Someone is making me think of things which never happened._

_Things which aren’t real._

He willed himself _not_ to call to mind any of those visions. 

He willed himself _not_ to allow any of them to rise to the surface of his consciousness. 

But like a many-tentacled creature lurking in the deep, there were just too many to keep down all at once.

_No._

_No more._

*

“Dad. Dad.”   
****

He heard a voice which sounded like Dudley’s. Light was falling on his face, and a cool draft was filling the small space.

“He’s in here.”

He opened his eyes a crack. Dudley was standing there, holding open the door of the cupboard under the stairs.   
****

Uncle Vernon’s bottom half appeared next to Dudley. The body crouched down and Uncle Vernon’s face came into view. “There he is. Hallo, Harry.”

He waited for Aunt Petunia to appear. 

“Mrs. Figg took good care of you, did she?” Uncle Vernon said. 

He said nothing, just lay in the small bed they had put in here for him. 

“Where,” he croaked. He was thirsty and his throat was dry. “Where’s Auntie?” 

Uncle Vernon was looking at him. “Your Aunt’s been taken into hospital again,” he said gruffly. 

_Oh no…_

“She’s going to be there for a long time,” Dudley piped up, then stopped talking when Uncle Vernon nudged him. 

“She’ll be there until she’s well. We don’t know how long that will be,” he said. “Now come on, Harry. Get out of the cupboard. You’ve got a bed upstairs.” 

He shook his head. He didn’t know how long it had been since the bad ones had gone away. 

Uncle Vernon huffed. “Come on now. Be a good boy just like you are for your aunt.” 

He turned his face into the pillow. 

“What’s wrong, Harry,” Uncle Vernon said, in a voice which indicated that he was swiftly losing patience. 

“Scared,” he said, lifting his mouth off the pillow just enough to get the word out. Nothing happened. Then he felt large hands pulling at him, dragging him out of the bed. He fought at first, then went limp. 

Uncle Vernon half-carried him over to the sofa in the living room and propped him up on it. “Why can’t you sit up?” He said, sounding annoyed. “Christ, look at you. You’re a bag of bones. Didn’t you eat Mrs. Figg’s food?”

He shook his head. 

Uncle Vernon cast his eyes to the ceiling. “God give me strength,” he muttered. Then he fixed his eyes, with their puffy eyelids, on him. “You had a fright,” he said matter of factly. “Your aunt—your aunt went off the rails again. She thought someone was chasing you, that’s why she tried to hide you. Alright? But it’s over now,” he said. “Your Aunt is being taken care of at the hospital. She’ll be back with us soon.” 

“What about Mr. Figg?” He whispered to Uncle Vernon. “And the bad ones?”

Uncle Vernon looked at him. 

“They’ll be back,” he whispered. “They’re coming back for me.” 

Uncle Vernon wiped a hand over his moustache, smoothing it down. Then he called out, “Dudley. Don’t unpack your bag. We’re going back to the hospital.” 

*

 

He was sitting in the car, he knew that. His eyes could see other cars, could see the sky, clouds. But the real world seemed very, very far away. 

_Uncle Vernon tried to check me into hospital._

_But they…_

_They couldn’t see me._

_It was like I was invisible._

_They didn’t notice I was there._

So Uncle Vernon had taken him home again—

_No._

_It didn’t really happen._

_This is all—a fake memory._

_Stop thinking of it._

_Just ignore it._

But the realisation came anyway. He remembered Hermione staring at him. 

_It happened to you too?_

He had been erased. 

*

One day there was a knock on his cupboard door. 

“Sweetheart?” 

The door opened to reveal Aunt Petunia wearing a housecoat, looking very thin, very pale, but a huge smile dawning on her face as she saw him. 

“What on earth are you doing in here, sweetheart? Auntie's home, sweetheart. Come and give Auntie a cuddle, now.” 

She had dropped to the floor and was holding her arms open to him. He could see the tears shining in her eyes, whether from sadness or joy he didn’t know. 

He regarded her stonily for a moment, then turned over to face the wall and pulled the covers over his head. 

_You did this._

_It’s all your fault._

_I hate you._

*

 He opened his eyes. Harsh, white glaring lights were shining in them. He squinted.

“Potter?”

He knew that voice. 

_Malfoy._

_Why can’t it be… someone else?_

_Who, though?_

_Who would you want here?_

Then he realised he didn’t know where he was or what was going on. 

He opened his eyes and looked at Malfoy. Malfoy leaned one elbow on the bed and said, “You owe me a car.” 

He frowned and realised he was in an all-white room, lying in a single bed with his clothes still on. 

_The Infirmary?_

He looked down. His left arm was encased in a hard, white shell and he couldn’t move it at all. 

The door opened and a woman walked into the room. “Awake, are we? You’re a very lucky young man,” the woman in the white coat said, rifling through some papers on her clipboard. “Your injuries could easily have been life-threatening. A concussion alone could have been fatal. I hope this has taught you the importance of wearing a seatbelt.”

He stared at her dumbly. 

“You’re in shock,” she said, “you’re to go home and rest. Put your feet up. Watch telly.” She looked at her clipboard again. “Are you still in school?”

He shook his head. 

“I’ll give you a medical leave note for work for the rest of the week. You’ll need to make an appointment for two weeks’ time to check up on your arm. Don’t get the cast wet. Can someone help you in the bath?”

Her eyes flickered, perhaps involuntarily, toward Malfoy.

“Er—yeah,” he lied. “Of course.” He felt his cheeks go hot. 

“Good. Take care of yourself.” She turned and left, pushing her way out of the curtains surrounding the hospital bed he was sitting on. 

He glanced at Malfoy. “Going to make some nasty comment?” 

Malfoy met his eyes. He looked spooked, and not at all cocky. He shook his head. “I—I’m sorry about what I said, Potter,” Malfoy dropped his gaze. He was flushed a dull red. “I’m sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable.” 

He didn’t say anything. 

“I thought you were dead,” Malfoy said quietly.  

_Again?_

Malfoy raised his head and looked at him again. “I thought you were dead before. When—when they were carrying you out of the forest,” he said in a half whisper. “I thought you had died.” 

“I had,” he replied. 

Malfoy looked at his trainers again. “I know,” he muttered. “But you know, for a moment, it was real.” Malfoy looked at him again. 

“What happened?” He didn’t really want to know.

“There was another fire. While I was driving,” Malfoy said. “It was lucky,” Malfoy said quietly. “It was a lucky thing…” his voice trailed off.

He threw the sheet off and swung his feet over the bed. He was only wearing socks on his feet. 

“Your shoes—” Malfoy said, opening the door of the table next to the bed and taking them out. 

He looked from his arm to the laces. He wasn’t going to be able to tie them with one arm in a cast. 

“Do you—” Malfoy said hesitantly. “Should I—”

Malfoy picked up one of his trainers, then looked at him. 

“Er—” he said. “I need my shoes.” 

Malfoy was so cautious it was as if it was his foot which was broken. When the shoe was on, Malfoy started tying the laces, his silver head bent forward in concentration. “Is that, er—” Malfoy said quietly. “Tight enough?” Malfoy looked up quickly. Malfoy was blushing bright pink. 

He nodded. Malfoy finished tying the laces, then moved on to the other shoe. 

_Weird._

_So weird._

_Just a few days and everything changes._

_Everything changes beyond recognition._

He stood up and walked through the curtains. Everything was white and smelled of antiseptic. He felt queasy. 

For the first time, the realisation settled fully upon him that he was in a Muggle hospital. 

_A Muggle hospital._

_Oh God._

_I need to get out of here._

Muggles in white coats and uniforms rushed here and there. He walked past a long row of curtains, hiding beds like the one he’d sat on. He passed into a huge waiting area filled with rows of seats filled with dozens of Muggles. People seemed to be looking at him as he passed. He could feel their eyes on him, staring. 

He pushed through a pair of doors and found himself in bright, hot sunshine. He stopped, confused, looking around, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. 

He rubbed his free hand over his forehead. He was starting to sweat in the sun. 

_Your Aunt’s been taken into hospital again._

He felt rooted to the spot, and suddenly the sweat ran ice cold. Panic gripped his heart in an unforgiving vice. 

_What am I going to do?_

_Fire._

His mind was filled with flames. 

_I’m going to set something on fire again._

_I can just feel it._

_BEEEEEEEP_

A car horn blared in his ear and he almost jumped out of his skin. 

“Get out of the road!” 

_Oh Christ._

His heart was racing and he could feel the sweat pouring down his face, neck and back, soaking through his t-shirt. He was shaking. 

“Oi, matey!” The voice came again. “Move yer arse!”

Dancing flames seemed to be filling his entire body. He heard a sound like a door slamming and something moved in his eyeline—someone was coming toward him—

_I’ve gone mad again._

A second figure appeared, running toward him. “No—” He recognised Malfoy’s voice. Malfoy came and stood between him and the other voice.

“What the bleeding hell do you think you’re doing!” The first voice shouted, closer this time. He looked. It was a man with a red face, bald head and a huge round stomach. 

“Just chill out, okay?” Malfoy said to the irate man. “Can’t you see he’s ill?” 

“ _Oooh_!” The Muggle looked Malfoy up and down. “His lordship’s commands must be obeyed. Begging your pardon, _Dorian Gray_.” The man gave an exaggerated bow, but slunk back to his car, muttering.

He couldn’t breathe. Black spots appeared in front of his eyes. 

_I’m going to die._

“Sit down,” Malfoy said, in the same quiet voice. “Over here.”

He did as he was told. A car drove past and the red-faced man stuck his head out of the window and called out, “Poncing bloody woofters!”

“What do you need?” Malfoy asked. 

He looked into Malfoy’s eyes.

“I’ve gone mad,” he whispered. He was shaking so hard he could barely get the words out. 

“I’m here,” Malfoy’s voice said. “I’m here with you. Breathe in,” Malfoy said. “Count with me. One, two, three, four, five.” Malfoy was watching him. “Hold your breath. Now, let it out. Slowly.”

And then Malfoy said the whole thing again. This time he tried to follow Malfoy’s instructions, he didn’t know why. 

And then Malfoy said the whole thing again.

After a while, he realised that there were two Muggles standing nearby, one of them holding on to a wheelchair. “Do you think you can stand up, mate?” A calm voice said, and someone helped him to his feet and to sit in the wheelchair. “We’re going to check that everything’s alright. Okay?”

*

“Have you had a panic attack before?” 

It was the same woman again, with the white coat. 

“Sorry?” He said. He didn’t know what she was talking about.  

“A panic attack,” she said. “You may have felt shortness of breath, racing heart, sweating, a sense of impending doom. Some people feel as if they are going to lose control or go insane.”

“Er,” he said. “Yeah. I have done.” 

“When was the last time?” 

He tried to think. “It happened, er… two or three times yesterday. And the day before that.”

“Have you ever been diagnosed with anxiety?”

He shook his head. 

“Have you been experiencing a lot of stress recently?” 

_Stress?_

_I guess… I guess you could call it stress._

He nodded. 

“How long has this been going on for?” 

“Er… about a year, I guess.” 

“And have you been having panic attacks consistently during that time?” 

He shook his head. “No, just… the past few days.” 

“Has anything happened in the past few days which could have brought this on?” 

_I…_

_I think so…_

“Is it—” he said, even though she was a Muggle, and wouldn’t know anything about it. “Is it possible to remember things that didn’t happen? Can memories be false?”

She paused. “Have you been remembering painful things that happened to you? Traumatic things that happened to you?” 

He stared at the floor. It was a kind of grey and white linoleum. 

“Do you think that remembering these things could have caused your panic attacks?” She said quietly. 

The floor needed to be swept. He could see some dust bunnies collecting in the corner.

She paused and then continued, “Traumatic events can go on to affect people for years afterward. Sometimes we use coping strategies to avoid experiencing the pain associated with remembering them. I’m going to recommend that you seek counselling and discuss this with a therapist,” the woman said. “I’ll make a referral for you.” 

“I don’t like hospitals,” he said. 

“You wouldn’t need to visit a hospital for therapy,” the woman said. “It would take place at a center local to you. Which borough are you a resident of?” 

“I don’t know,” he replied stupidly. 

“I’ll leave you to think it over,” the woman said. “You can leave when you’re ready. The medication you were given should help you to feel calmer for the rest of the day and get a good night's sleep. Your friend can see you now.” 

The woman left. 

 


	54. Disinfectant and Despair

**Draco**

He sat on a hard plastic chair waiting while Potter was treated.

_I knew there was something wrong with him._

_Two days ago._

_The Elves told me._

_But I was angry at him._

_I didn’t do anything about it._

He sat there, desperately wishing Sir or Father were here to give him a hug. Wishing he could call either of them and hear their voices. 

_Or even Mum._

_If I could just talk to Mum._

He had never felt so alone as he did now. The hospital smelled terrible. He didn’t know what they did to their hospitals to make them smell so awful. He knew part of it was the smell of disinfectant, but it was repulsive. 

_Disinfectant and despair._

That was what it smelled like. 

It had taken Potter over an hour to wake up. The medical staff kept telling him that he and Potter were very lucky. They had escaped with barely a scratch. He had sat there and cried as if Potter had died. One nurse had brought him a box of tissues. He had been so lucky that no-one else was hurt. That no-one was killed. 

 _Hecate, I thought_ I _was dead when I lost control of the car._

Just Potter’s seat had caught fire, first. Potter had been lying there, seemingly asleep. Then Potter had been engulfed in flame. 

_I screamed my head off._

He’d gone straight off the motorway, through the barrier and into the field next to it. Potter hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt and he had been thrown into the windshield, which was how his arm had been broken.

_Then I started inhaling smoke._

_I couldn’t breathe._

He hadn’t though beyond that point. He had just reached for Potter and then he had landed in the grass, Potter had landed on top of him and knocked the wind out of him. They were about fifty feet from the car, which was billowing dark grey smoke. Through the grass he could see the flames licking all through the windows and underneath the bonnet.

_My car._

That car had been his eighteenth birthday present. It had been his most precious possession.

_Potter._

_Potter_

When he realised Potter was breathing, because Potter was sprawled across his chest and he could feel it, tears started to leak out of his eyes. He knew that you weren’t supposed to move an injured person because they might have a spinal injury, so he didn’t move. He just lay there and waited for the ambulance to arrive. The Muggles didn’t understand that he and Potter had been inside the car at first. They put Potter on a stretcher. After they checked him over he told them that he had pulled Potter out of the car, and that he had pulled him so far away because he was afraid the car would explode. That was what always happened in films. He couldn’t really explain why Potter was on top of him, but they didn’t ask. Potter didn’t have a spinal injury. 

_I knew he wasn’t well, but I didn’t do anything about it._

He should have done something instead of just arguing with Potter. 

He should have done something the moment that sofa went up in flames. 

He should _never_ have allowed Potter to carry on after that. 

_I wasn’t even nice to him._

_I was horrible._

Potter had almost gotten them killed, but Potter was ill, and he was healthy. So it was _his_ job to make sure Potter and he were safe. But he hadn’t wanted to see it, because Potter was strong and brave and noble. He hadn’t wanted to see Potter as weak and broken.

_I thought Potter was a hero._

_I wanted him to be a hero…_

He needed to speak to someone about Potter. Someone had to help Potter. Someone Potter trusted.

_Hermione Granger._

_I’m going to call Granger._

She and Potter might have fallen out, but she was preferable as a person who could take care of Potter. Preferable to _him_ , that was—

He took his phone out of his pocket and flipped through the call logs. 

_Bingo._

He redialled and put the phone to his ear while it rang. It rang for five rings, and just when he was thinking it would go to voicemail—

“Harry?” 

“No, it’s—it’s, er, it’s Draco Malfoy,” he said, feeling extremely awkward. 

“You know how to use a telephone?” She said with no attempt at politeness. 

“Potter’s been in a car accident,” he said. “Er, we both were—”

“ _You_ were in a _car_?” 

“Er—yes, but look, Granger. Potter’s not well. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he—he needs help.”

“And you want me to come and take care of him.” Her tone was flat. There was even an edge of accusation in it. 

He felt a growing sense of helplessness. “He needs—” 

“Welcome to the wonderful world of Harry Potter,” Granger said. “His _needs_ are paramount. You’ll find that out soon enough.”

“But—”

“Malfoy, you caught me just as I was going out the door. I need to be on a flight in three hours’ time.” 

_I’m scared for him._

_What in Hecate’s name am I supposed to do?_

“You…” her voice continued. “You _care_ about him, don’t you?” 

He stared at the mobile phone in horror. “W-whatever gave you that idea?” He stuttered.

“I thought it was just a silly rumour,” Granger’s voice continued, ignoring him. “But you wouldn’t be doing this unless you did.” 

He stared at the phone, speechless. 

“Well, well, well,” Granger said. “Draco Malfoy has a heart beating in his chest after all. That could make the front page of the Daily Prophet.” 

“I’m really worried about him,” he heard himself saying. 

_I can’t believe I just said that._

“I don’t know what could be bothering him so much,” he said. “Is there anything you can think of?”

Granger was silent for a moment, then said, “The only reason I’m talking to you about this is because you’re the only one who can help Harry right now. I think this is related to his Muggle family.”

“Oh,” he said. “Okay.” 

“I don’t know anything about them. I don’t know anything about his childhood. He never talks about it.” 

“Right,” he said. How was this relevant? 

“No,” Granger said. “I don’t think you understand. He _never_ talks about it. In the seven years I’ve known him, he’s never spoken about it. It’s a forbidden topic. It’s off limits. You can’t even go anywhere near asking about it. It’s like he didn’t exist before he came to Hogwarts at age 11.” 

“That’s… a little weird, isn’t it?” 

“Harry isn’t exactly the most in touch with his emotions person,” Granger went on. “Anything other than anger is rather threatening to him. If I had to guess, I would say something about his near-death experience brought up some memories from the past that he’d rather not think about. What those are, I can’t say.” 

“So you agree he seriously needs help, but someone else has to do it,” he said angrily. “And you call yourself his friend?” 

“I don’t have to justify myself to you, Malfoy,” Granger replied acidly. “If you’re sincere about helping Harry, convince him to go and make up with Ron and Ginny.” 

_Oh…_

That was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“I’m sure that’s not what you wanted to hear,” Granger said drily. 

“You’re a clever witch, Granger,” he said. 

“I’m not a witch.” The reply came in the same flat tone.

“Is that why you’re going back to the Muggle world? Or is this related to your hair?” 

There was silence on the end of the phone. He had the feeling that this time it was he who had surprised Granger. 

“None of your fucking business,” Granger’s voice was cut off as she hung up and only the dial tone remained, beeping, in his ear.

His mother’s words from their last meeting in her study came back to him.

_From what I saw in that forest last night, I’d say there’s a good chance Potter has sustained some spell damage_

He sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case. Sir had been trying to find out what the magic was which Potter had used to dispatch the Reptile, but Potter had refused to tell him. 

_You care about him, don’t you?_

_Care._

Caring suggested… giving. It suggested tenderness, goodness and trust.

_None of that describes me._

It didn’t describe his behaviour toward Potter, how he thought about Potter.

_What does that say?_

_What does that say about me?_

He’d been angry with Potter for so long, and what good had it ever brought him? That anger had sat in him like a poison, working its way through his entire being, turning him jealous, bitter and resentful. 

The doctor who had been seeing Potter came out from behind the curtain where Potter had been taken after his panic attack. She nodded at him, then continued on her way, going two beds down and disappearing behind the curtain there.   
****

“Potter?” He lingered in front of the curtain, nervous.

“Yeah,” Potter’s voice was quiet. 

He went inside. Potter looked pale and sad. He felt as if he were approaching someone on their deathbed. 

_You… care about him, don’t you?_

He suddenly felt as if he were going to start crying again. 

_I want to..._

_I don’t want to be filled with poison._

He remembered the way that Potter had kissed him in the future, when he’d asked Potter if he could stay with him. The tender kiss like a velvet rosebud. There had been something fragile in that kiss. Something hopeful.   

_I want to take care of you._

He stood there, his arms hanging limp by his side. Potter sat on the hospital bed, staring at his hands. 

He wanted to put his arms around Potter so badly it hurt. 

“I called Granger,” he said, not knowing why. 

Potter’s eyebrows went up. 

_Oh Hecate._

_Why did I say that?_

_Now he’s going to be disappointed._

“She— she can’t come,” he finished lamely. 

“Oh,” Potter said, then got down from the bed. They hadn’t taken his shoes off this time. Potter looked so forlorn sitting there he didn’t know how he could stand it.  

_He feels awful right now._

_And there’s nothing I can do to make him feel better._

Potter was still sitting there, as if he was about to get up but just didn’t have the strength. “What did she know,” he said. “The doctor. She was a Muggle.” Potter looked at him. “Why did you bring me here?” 

He looked back at Potter. The truth was that he had been afraid of what would happen if he tried to take an injured Harry Potter to St Mungo’s. He had been afraid of being arrested.

“I hate hospitals,” Potter said. “I hate Muggle hospitals. I’m a wizard. I shouldn’t be here. How can they know what’s wrong with me?”

“So let’s go,” he said. “Let’s go, right now.” 

Potter stood up. 

He moved toward him slightly—his instinct was to offer support, for Potter to lean on him. 

But Potter just looked at him askance and pushed through the curtain. 

He followed Potter. He didn’t really want Potter to leave the hospital at all. He wanted him to stay here so they could make him better. Fix whatever it was that was wrong with him. 

_I need to take him to a Healer._

_A proper one._

While Potter was being treated, he had asked a nurse what was going on. The nurse told him that they had checked Potter’s blood oxygen levels and they were normal, so his heart was fine. Physically, in fact, he was in good shape. They had given him something to block his body from processing adrenaline, as well as sedatives to calm him down. This should protect him from another attack for the rest of the day and night, and probably tomorrow as well.  

Under the influence of the sedatives, Potter was moving like an old man. It would have been funny under any other circumstances. As it was, he just found it disconcerting and a little upsetting. 

As he watched Potter approach the doors to exit the hospital he started to pray that Poter didn’t have another attack the moment he got outside and got back to the place where his earlier attack had started. But Potter got outside and then stood there, vaguely, amidst the traffic passing in and out of the hospital doors. 

“The taxi rank’s over here,” he muttered to Potter, trying to lead him away from the entrance without touching him at all. Luckily he hadn’t taken his wallet and the passports out of his back pocket while he was driving. 

_Thank Hecate for that._

Potter followed, his eyes not looking at anything in particular, and climbed into the taxi after him. 

“Heathrow, please,” he said to the driver. 

“The airport?” The cabbie replied, looking a little surprised. 

Probably he didn’t get a lot of requests to go straight to the airport from the hospital. On top of that neither he nor Potter had any bags nor did they look travel ready. 

“Yes, please,” he said. 

“Right you are then,” the cabbie shrugged and pulled away. “Seatbelts, if you please, gents.” 

Potter was staring out the window. 

“Potter,” he said. “Seatbelt.” 

Potter looked at him blankly. “Huh?”

“Put your seatbelt on,” he hissed. 

“That’s the law, gents. I don’t make it, I just follow it.” the cabbie said pleasantly but firmly. 

Potter was pawing feebly at the seatbelt, looking confused. 

_Hecate wept._

He undid his seatbelt quickly, leaned over and grabbed Potter’s seatbelt, yanked it across his body and fastened it, without touching Potter or his clothes. He sat back and fastened his own seatbelt again. 

“What did Hermione say?” Potter said. 

“Oh,” he said, almost having forgotten he’d told Potter. “She…”

“She’s leaving,” Potter said heavily. “Going to Australia.” 

“Ah,” he said. “She said she was in a hurry.” 

Potter sighed. “She said she wasn’t coming back. She’s going to Muggle university.” 

“Oh,” he said. 

“Why would she do that,” Potter whispered. It wasn’t even a question. 

_I know why I would leave._

_Why I will leave._

Meeting Potter from the future changed nothing. That had been a mistake. He should never have opened that door last night. He should never have gone to the future this morning. It was all just another classic Draco Malfoy fuck-up. 

_It changes nothing._

_I’m going to leave._

_As soon as my business with Potter and the servants is concluded._

The more time he spent around Potter, the worse it would be for him—and it wasn’t doing Potter any good, either. 

_I need to forget about what happened in the safe house._

_Forget about what happened in the future._

_Potter was right to stop me._

_I could never forgive myself._

_It wouldn’t be right._

_Potter did the right thing._

_I was in the wrong._

It was just something which had happened once, and never would again. He never needed to tell anyone it had happened, and no-one need know how Draco Malfoy had nearly cocked things up for himself and everyone else—yet again. No-one need know how Draco Malfoy had failed to take care of Harry Potter and through his negligence nearly got them both killed. 

_I’m going to a place where I can’t mess things up._

_Where no-one will be disappointed when I fuck up._

_Where no-one expects anything of me._

Because there would be no-one there who knew him.

_I’ll be alone._

_But I’ll be free._

And he would purge himself of poison. Before it was too late. 

He needed a smoke, but his pipe and all of his pipe weed had gone up in flames when the car did. 

He rubbed his temples. 

It was going to be a long evening. 


	55. Who's Harry Dursley?

**Harry**

 

_This should help you feel calmer._

Calmer wasn’t really the word for it. He felt as if he had been swathed in cotton wool. The world had receded quite far away; things seemed distant. In terms of his emotions, he felt inert. Where he expected to feel some reaction, there was nothing. 

It hadn’t stopped the visions. 

Now they poured through him as if a flooded river had broken its banks. They swept everything before them. 

He stared at the Muggle world passing by the window. Suburban terraces and semis. Front lawns and shrubbery. Hanging planters with flowers trailing in the wind.

_I thought I had left the Muggle world behind._

_I thought I’d never have to go there again._

_Never have anything to do with it._

He thought of Hermione’s words. 

_Once I started remembering, it was like the charm unravelled_

_I started to remember more and more_

_Memories that had been suppressed by the charm_

Hermione had started to remember after she experimented with memory charms on herself. 

_But I haven’t been doing memory charms on myself._

_Why…_

_Why is this happening now?_

_I’ve gone years and years._

_I never thought about it._

He had died. There was that.

_I didn’t just die._

He had been a Horcrux which was destroyed. Tom Riddle’s diary had bled ink. Marvolo’s ring had caused Dumbledore’s hand to wither and die. 

_What happens if you destroy a Horcrux inside a human being?_

_What effect does that have on that person?_

So many times in the past few days he had been seized by the terrifying fear of going mad. Perhaps that was what was happening to him now. Perhaps this was just the beginning of a long slide into insanity from which he could never come back. 

_Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum._

_A wrapper from Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum._

That was what Neville Longbottom’s mum had given Neville when they saw him and his parents in St. Mungo’s that Christmas in fifth year. Neville Longbottom’s parents had been tortured so badly by the Lestranges that they had to spend the rest of their lives on a ward of St. Mungo’s. It had been clear to him and everyone else that Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom had lost some vital part of their minds, of their personalities, which they could never get back. 

_If Cruciatus can do that to a person…_

_What would destroying a Horcrux do?_

His body had come back alive, but what about his mind? Everything had seemed different since he had come back from dying. 

_Is it the rest of the world that has changed?_

_Or is it my own mind?_

It made sense now, why they had tried to capture him and put him in St. Mungo’s. 

_They knew._

That morning after the Battle, he’d Firecalled Hestia Smith. He remembered her reaction to him. 

_Are you alright, Harry?_

Then… he had walked into Gryffindor Tower and found Kingsley Shacklebolt talking to Ginny, Neville, Ron, and the rest of them. 

_What was he talking to them about?_

He hadn’t thought about it beyond feeling betrayed that Kingsley had been talking to the others instead of him. But now he realised… Kingsley might have been talking to them _about_ him. They had all fallen silent when he appeared. Kingsley could have been warning them—

_Be careful of Harry._

_We think You-Know-Who destroyed his mind._

_We’re going to have him taken to St. Mungo’s._

_He’ll be joining your parents, Neville._

_All of you need to watch him and make sure he doesn’t leave the castle._

The pills the Muggles had given him were so strong that even this revelation didn’t bring on any emotion. He felt totally numb. He didn’t even have an opinion. Malfoy should never have taken him to a Muggle hospital. The smell of the place, the people, the cold sterility of the white-uniformed staff.

_I don’t believe that Muggle doctor._

_She knows nothing._

_It’s like when Auntie was in hospital._

He couldn’t stop the thoughts now, and he couldn’t feel fear, or terror, or panic, or sadness, or despair. The thoughts kept coming, and they weren’t even about what Kingsley had done. 

The thoughts were about Aunt Petunia, who he had sworn never, _ever_ , to think of again.

_When she was in hospital it was just like that._

_When Uncle Vernon tried to take me to hospital it was just like that._

It was as if Voldemort’s final gesture was to send him back to the Muggle world, from which he’d been trying to escape for seven years, and which Voldemort had hated and feared. 

_Isn’t that what madness is?_

_When you can no longer tell the difference between fantasy and reality?_

_Am I doomed?_

_Am I cursed forever?_

It was a beautiful day outside, but he felt like he’d been brought back to life only to find he was a living corpse, or maybe a ghost, lost and wandering, caught between two worlds, not really a part of either, and not sure which one was real. 

He leaned his head against the head rest and watched it go by. 

_Go onward, then._

_Where else is there to go?_

_And what else is there to do?_

*

He and Dudley were playing on the Nintendo. Dudley won again. 

“You’re not even trying,” Dudley complained, and threw the controller at him. 

He said nothing, just let the controller clatter to the floor. 

“You’ll break it,” Dudley muttered, snatching it back from him. “Play again?” He asked, navigating the start menu. 

He nodded half-heartedly. 

“Do you want to play,” Dudley said loudly, gratingly loudly. “Or are you just going to sit there like a lump?” 

He didn’t reply. 

“I saw Piers yesterday,” Dudley said. “He doesn’t even know who you are.” 

He scowled. “Liar.” 

Piers would never forget about him. Even though Piers never came over to play any more… 

“He did so,” Dudley said. “‘Harry Dursley?’ he said. ‘Who’s Harry Dursley?’” Dudley smiled. “He’s _my_ friend now.”

Before, he might have cried. Or gone to Auntie. But he wasn’t going to do that any more. 

“If he sees me,” he said. “He’ll remember.” 

Dudley smiled slowly. “He did see you,” he said. 

He frowned. “No he didn’t.” 

Dudley nodded. “I showed him. You were sleeping in your cupboard. I opened the door and said, ‘Look, it’s Harry. Don’t you know who he is?’”

His heart was pounding. 

Dudley continued, his voice soft and dangerous. “And you know what he said? He said, ‘Why is he sleeping in the middle of the day? Is he ill? Why is he in a cupboard? Who _is_ that? Why is there a strange boy in your house?’” 

He was fighting back tears. Piers was his best friend. They did everything together. On Saturdays they went to the public library together. But his library card was gone, and now Piers was gone, too. 

“You know what he did then?” Dudley continued, staring at him with malevolence. “He said, ‘What a freak!’ and he laughed.” 

He wanted to fight Dudley, but he had no strength. 

“That’s what you are,” Dudley said. “You’re a freak. You don’t belong here. Why don’t you leave? Just go away and never come back.” 

He stared at Dudley. “I’m ill,” he said. 

“No you’re not!” Dudley shouted. “Dad says it’s all in your head. Mummy is the one who’s ill. She was in hospital!” 

He held Dudley’s gaze. “You know what makes her ill.”

Dudley was turning red.

“You should never have come back from Mallorca,” he said. “Uncle took you there and he should have left you there. Because _she_ doesn’t want you.” 

A trickle of sweat ran down Dudley’s temple.

“You’re fat, **”** he said quietly, “and ugly, and stupid, and _she hates you_.” 

Dudley stood up and threw the controller at him with all his strength. It hit him in the head. The controller was snapped back by the long cord connected to the console and it ricocheted against the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster.

“Ow,” he said. He touched his head and when he looked at his fingers, there was blood. He felt dizzy and fell back on the floor. 

“What are you going to do?” Dudley said. “Set me on fire?”

He stared at Dudley, wishing he could do something. Wishing he _could_ set him on fire. 

_I can’t do it on purpose._

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to barbecue you.” 

_I’ve tried._

He heaved himself off the floor with all of his strength and launched himself at Dudley. He grabbed two handfuls of Dudley’s hair as hard as he could and twisted. Dudley yelled loudly and started punching him in the ribs. 

“Leave him alone!” 

Ever since Auntie came home from the hospital, she had been lying under a duvet on the sofa in the front room. Now she was there, pulling Harry off Dudley. “Don’t touch him!” She screamed at Dudley. When she saw the blood on his head, she screamed. “What have you done?”

Dudley started crying loudly. 

He tore himself away from Auntie, went straight to his cupboard and shut the door. 

_Freak._

_I’m a freak._

*

Uncle Vernon didn’t have much trouble getting the door open. There was no doorknob or lock on the inside. Uncle Vernon dragged him out by the scruff of his neck, sat him down at the kitchen table and swabbed the cut on his head with something that stung, and put a sticking plaster on it. 

“Don’t move,” he said, and picked up the phone which hung on the wall in the kitchen, punching in the number angrily. 

“Whingeing Family Practice? Yes, it’s Vernon Dursley here. I’ve got a seriously disturbed boy here and I need you to do something about it and stop giving me the run-around.” Uncle Vernon paused. “Yes, he’s a patient. He’s been a patient with you for several years.” Uncle Vernon whuffled through his moustache. “Harry. Harry Dursley. He’s almost ten years old.” Uncle Vernon started tapping his foot against the floor. “Now—look—who’s your manager? Who’s in charge there? Give me someone else to speak to.” Uncle Vernon drummed his fingers on the counter. “Yes. Hello there. You’re in charge, are you? Right. I’ve been calling for weeks now. Somewhere along the line there’s been an almighty cock-up and you’ve lost the files for my—my wife’s son.” Uncle Vernon paused, breathing heavily. “No, no, no, no!” He barked. “I’ve brought the boy in. I’ve brought him in _twice_ now. You refuse to treat him. His counsellor won’t see him.” The drumming got faster, more insistent. “Listen here. There’s only so much bureaucracy a man can take. I’m willing to pay for private care, I expect a higher standard than a ruddy NHS waiting list— I’ve _tried_ every other bleeding mental health professional in a fifty-mile radius—”

Auntie appeared in the door of the kitchen, hugging herself tightly. She seemed to have aged years in just a few weeks. “Leave it, Vernon.” 

Uncle Vernon put his hand over the mouthpiece. “I will not. That boy’s not fit to be among people. He needs—”

“Dudley attacked him,” she said. 

“He _threatened_ Dudley,” Uncle Vernon spat, hanging up the phone so violently the handset bounced off the wall and fell onto the counter. 

“There’s no point,” Aunt Petunia said. Her voice sounded incredibly tired. “They’ve forgotten him. They won’t notice him now.” 

“Petunia, stop it,” Uncle Vernon said. “This is your delusions talking. You can’t keep talking about it around the boy. He’s confused enough as it is. You’re only making it worse.”

“What do you know?” Aunt Petunia said. “What do you know about anything?” 

“There’s something wrong with the boy. I—Petunia, I believe he started those fires. I don’t know how he did it. Hidden matches, maybe. He could have gone down in the night, doused the cushions with lighter fluid. I’m not too sure. But mark my words, Petunia. _He’s_ behind those fires.” 

They were talking about him as if he wasn’t there. He didn’t look at either of them. 

Aunt Petunia glanced at Uncle Vernon in distaste, and didn’t reply. She made her way slowly to the kitchen table and sat down in the chair next to him. She tried to stroke his hair, but he moved out of the way. “Are you surprised he’s upset,” she said bitterly. “When you left him alone here, and took Dudley off to Mallorca?”

“He. Was. _Not._ Alone!” Uncle Vernon said in tones of barely controlled rage. “Mrs. Figg and her husband took _excellent_ care of him.”

Aunt Petunia glanced at Uncle Vernon with a look of such burning hatred that it amazed him Uncle Vernon didn’t burst into flame himself.  

“Auntie’s home now,” she whispered to him. She tried to embrace him, but he stood up and walked out of the kitchen. 

“Harry,” she said. Her voice was tremulous. “Harry, come back here.” 

He ignored her. 

“Harry!” 

He went into the garden and lay down on the grass and looked at the sky for a long, long time, thinking about nothing. 

* 

“Potter,” Malfoy’s voice came to him across a great distance. 

He looked. Malfoy was getting out of the cab. He unhooked his seatbelt and followed unthinkingly. It was crowded. Cars and people carriers were unloading along a seemingly endless stretch of pavement. Suitcases and unwieldy luggage trolleys choked the free spaces. 

Malfoy was keeping close to him, constantly looking at him as if to check on him. He would have felt irritated, but he couldn’t feel any thing now, so he just ignored Malfoy. 

Through an enormous revolving door and into a high-ceiling concourse filled with people, bright lights and noise. 

“The ticket desk’s over there,” Malfoy said, pointing. 

He followed. 

_So I am going to Dubrovnik after all._

It was ironic that of his visions, non-memories, or whatever you wanted to call them, Dubrovnik stood out from all the rest. 

_Happy._

_I was happy there._

_Once._


	56. Club 18-30

**Draco**

 

He walked into the departure hall with Potter trailing behind him like a vague ghost.   
****

_Hello again._

Despite everything, he felt a flicker of excitement as the atmosphere descended on him. It was busy—not July or August busy, but getting-to-summer busy all the same. The energy in an airport was different from anything as prosaic as a train station. People were serious, intent on their business, walking purposefully from A to B. With a whirring sound like a swarm of huge insects beating their wings, the tiles on the departures board started to turn, updating the information about the hundreds of flights leaving today. 

_Wow._

The destinations alone… Paris, Rome, Dubai, Tokyo, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. These were the times when he started to really realise how big the Muggle world was. 

_Even I find it intimidating._

_And I’m exceptionally well-travelled by British wizard standards._

These were the times when he started to realise that there were _billions_ of Muggles. That was millions upon millions on millions. And yet for most people it was so easy to forget about them altogether. 

_Much easier that way._

_Forget about them._

_Block them out._

He spied the airline counter. 

_I hope Mum kept these credit cards in good order._

_I don’t have enough cash for two tickets._

There was a couple thousand in his current account. If need be, he could withdraw it at a cash point. 

_What’s my pin number?_

_I can never remember—_

“Careful!” 

He had almost crashed into a luggage trolley. He’d been so distracted by his thoughts he hadn’t noticed where he was going.

“Sorry,” he muttered, stepping aroung the trolley.

“No worries.” 

He finally registered the Muggle who was pushing the trolley. He was wearing a Stussy t-shirt and had curly brown hair and bright blue eyes. He was wearing board shorts and one of those trendy beaded surfer necklaces.

_Style alert…_

The Muggle was giving him more than the once-over. More like the three-times-over. He was fit, too. Walking next to him was another Muggle with short brown hair with frosted tips, wearing a singlet and flip flops. The second boy put his hand on the arm of the first, looked at him with a warning look in his eyes, and then took over pushing the trolley. 

_Hrmmm…._

He did a little experiment. He continued walking, but glanced back over his shoulder just slightly.

_Thought so._

The brown curly-haired boy was looking back at him. Frosted Tips hadn’t noticed. 

He turned away with a small smile. Although there was no guarantee the curly-haired boy was _admiring_ his looks. 

_I’d like to think he was admiring my sinuous grace, but…_

He’d always known that the silver Malfoy colouring was distinctive, but it wasn’t until he was much older that he’d discovered it didn’t exist in the Muggle world. 

_I can’t help that I’m exotic._

_So watch and learn, bitches._

Sometimes when he was in the Muggle world he did get stared at. 

_Not sometimes._

_All the time._

_Spotty kids with dyed black hair ask me where I buy my contact lenses._

_I should have kept the choker on._

_And the tank top._

_That would give them something to stare at._

“Good evening.” 

He snapped back to reality. The woman behind the counter looked like she had dealt with one too many cranky customers already today. He smiled sweetly. “Heya. Two one-way tickets to Dubrovnik, please. Is there another flight tonight?” 

“You’re right on the line. Departs in ninety minutes. Passports please,” she said, tapping away at her keyboard. 

He pulled out his own and Potter’s passport. 

_Oh Hecate_

_I forgot to put a photograph in Potter’s passport._

_Shit._

There was no time… 

“Er,” he fudged. “Where _are_ they now?” He didn’t even have a bag on him, so he had to make a huge show of patting down his pockets as if he was giving himself a security check while he surreptitiously touched his wand with one hand and tried his best to cast a Confundus charm on the passports. Any Muggle who looked at them would find themselves confused and foggy and wouldn’t pay too much attention to the details on the passport. It would never work on a witch or wizard, but it should work on Muggles. He coughed loudly, “ _Confundus_!” 

_Okay._

_I think that’s alright._

“Here you are,” he said, smiling again. She looked up from her keyboard and did a subtle but undeniable double take when she caught sight of him, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. 

She leaned forward to get the passports. 

“Busy day?” He asked. He could tell she was itching for an excuse to look at him again and he thought he might as well give her an excuse. Muggles were funny creatures. It took some time to get over the sense of profound disability. But he’d found that very quickly you stopped noticing it and they just seemed like normal people. Odd, very odd, but also sort of bumbling and charming. 

“Yeah,” she said, meeting his eyes for a longer moment than necessary. “Chocka.” 

She went back to her keyboard, and he turned to check on Potter, but he could tell that she was still sneaking glances at him. 

“I don’t have a passport,” Potter stated loudly. He was standing impassively nearby, looking like nothing so much as a reanimated corpse or perhaps a sleepwalker. 

“Of course you do,” he said quickly, going closer to Potter. 

“No,” Potter said. “I don’t have a passport.” 

The woman’s eyes darted between him and Potter. He had the weirdest temptation to start play-acting that he and Potter were a couple, just to see how she would react. 

_It’s the 90s._

_Deal with it._

_Isn’t that the Muggle attitude?_

He muttered to Potter, “I made you a passport.” 

Potter didn’t seem to hear. 

_Oh Hecate._

_It’s like going to Mardi Gras with Cousin Itt._

“Er… blimey,” she said, squinting at Potter’s passport. “That’s…” 

“Harold Planter,” he said quickly. “Passport number 8176372. Date of birth July 31, 1980.” 

She quickly put the passport down and just typed in the information he had told her. 

He breathed a sigh of relief

The woman tapped a bit more on the keyboard. “All sorted for you,” the woman said, putting the freshly printed tickets on the counter between them. “That’ll be eight hundred and thirty-five pound and fifty-two pence, please.” 

_For economy?_

_Cripes._

He handed over one of the credit cards and it apparently worked fine, because after a moment he was signing the slip, he had his card back and two tickets in his hand. 

“Thank you and enjoy your flight,” the woman said, with a final appraising look at him. 

“Thank you,” he flashed her his most charming smile. “Let’s go, Potter,” he said. “We need to check in. Here’s your ticket and your passport and do _not_ lose them.”

He scanned the departure boards for their flight and found the check-in. There was only a small queue. The remaining block of check-in desks was taken up by a large tour company and there was a huge queue. There weren’t many families. It was mostly younger people, and they were all highly animated. They were dressed for the beach. Some of the girls had the string ties of bikini tops knotted on the backs of their necks. A lot of people were wearing flip flops and sunglasses. 

As he walked toward the Croatia Airlines queue, he noticed the two Muggles from earlier standing in the queue. Curly and Frosted Tips were talking. Frosted Tips had one hand on Curly’s shoulder in a casually intimate gesture—but not _too_ intimate. 

A woman with a high, tight ponytail and tiny red shorts was marching up and down the queue, directing newcomers. She spotted him and Potter. “Club 18-30, babes?” 

“Er—” His gaze shifted toward Curly and Frosted Tips. Curly had spotted him approaching, made eye contact and then looked quickly away again. 

“Oh my days, _loooove_ your contacts,” the woman said brightly. She was petite, with deep orange skin and long false nails. “And where do you get your colour? I was thinking of going platinum…”

He smiled his charming smile again. “It’s natural.” 

She laughed. “Okay, it’s your little secret, yeah?” she said. “Let’s get you checked in so we can start the party, yeah? And don’t worry,” she said in a slightly lower voice. “I’ll be showing you _all_ the best gay clubs.” 

He couldn’t help but grin. 

_Muggles are hilarious._

“That would be fantastic, but—”

“I’m not gay,” Potter said loudly. 

He bit down on the inside of his mouth as hard as he could to prevent himself laughing. The woman stared. Several people in the surrounding area had heard Potter and were now staring at him, looking disconcerted.

Potter didn’t seem to register any of the reactions to his statement. It was like he picked up one word in twenty of what was going on around him. 

_He’s stoned out of his mind._

_Wish I was._

“Keep it down, yeah?” The woman whispered loudly. “You’re in an airport.” 

_Oh Hecate._

_Muggles._

He had a sudden fierce wish that he and Potter _were_ together, so he could sweep Potter into a passionate embrace and then look at the woman and say, 

_Was that too loud?_

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, pushing Potter toward the Croatia Airlines counter. “I more than make up for him with my own _gayness_ ,” he said, even louder than Potter had. Even more people turned to stare. Curly was staring at him now. 

The woman folded her arms. “We don’t accept anti-social behaviour on our Club 18-30 holidays. It’s in the code of conduct.” 

_You want to see anti-social behaviour?_

_I’d like to show you_ my _code of conduct._

“Well, that’s perfect then,” he said to her. “Because we’re not _on_ your holiday.” 

“Toff,” the woman muttered, marching off with a shake of the head. She straightened up and within a second or two she was brightly greeting another group of newcomers. “Hiya! Club 18-30 Mallorca?” 

The Croatia Airlines counter was free. “ _Zdravo_ ,” he said pleasantly to the man behind the counter. The man didn’t seem to have noticed the scene which had just taken place. 

“Pardon?” 

_Oh Hecate._

“Evening,” he said. 

He would have thought the man would make at least the smallest effort to know the language of the airline he worked for. But apparently not. 

“You’d better hurry,” the man said, handing him the boarding passes. “Boarding starts in twenty minutes.” 

“Come on, Potter,” he said, hurrying toward immigration. He didn’t look back at the Club 18-30 group, but as they joined the much longer queue for immigration, he felt his heart sink.

_That could be my life._

He had been to Mallorca. Mum had taken him there twice, the summer he started at Hogwarts and the one after. 

_I could do that job._

_I could wear little red shorts and march about with a placard, making people stand in queues._

Come to think of it, the little red shorts would probably be against Club 18-30’s precious code of conduct. 

_But still._

He could take clueless Muggles on a tour bus and check them into their hotel and lead them in drinking games. He could spend every night dancing on a podium and twirling glow sticks. During the day he could lie on a wide sandy beach. And he could pull. 

_I could pull, alright._

Curly would be just the beginning. There were whole clubs full of gay boys in Mallorca. And a lot of girls liked boys as pretty as he was. 

_That would really make Potter jealous._

_It would make_ Future _Potter jealous._

_I could live._

_I could really live._

_Not in Spain, though._

_Let’s just dream a little bigger._

_Tijuana._

_Palm Springs._

He could just see Potter coming to find him, someday, somewhere. Potter would find him lounging by the pool with his latest squeeze. 

 _Potter_ , he’d say. _This is Lara. Lara, Potter._ He’d sip a Mai Tai indolently, push it toward Potter. _Try some?_

Potter would ignore Lara. Potter would crouch down by his lounger, his eyes raking involuntarily over his bare skin. _Malfoy… I’ve been looking for you everywhere._

 _Have you now?_ He would borrow Lara’s heart-shaped sunglasses. Look at Potter over them. 

 _Please come back,_ Potter would say. _You have to come back._

He would lean forward and whisper, _So does that mean you miss me?_

Potter would blush and stammer.  _Malfoy…_ he would say, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. 

He was dragged back to reality because he had reached the head of the immigration queue. He handed his passport to the dour uniformed woman behind the counter, who glanced at it and then handed it back. He continued to the other side and joined another queue for security. 

_This’ll be a breeze._

_Neither of us have a bag._

Then he realised something.

_The wands…_

_Shit._

He’d had enough training in air travel to know that you should _never_ try to take a wand through airport security. Muggles had a tendency to think they were weapons of some kind, which was of course accurate, although they didn’t know it. 

His wand was currently tucked into the long sleeve of his Adidas track top, held in place by the elasticated wristband. There was nothing for it. He closed his eyes and focused as hard as he could on the wordless spell to shrink his wand down to the size of a pencil stub. 

_Yes._

He could feel it contracting. After a few seconds, he stuck his hand into his sleeve and palmed the tiny wand, which he placed in his pocket. 

_Now…_

_Potter._

Potter was standing at the immigration desk, waiting to be waved through by the immigration officer. But the officer was staring at Potter’s passport, turning it this way and that, holding it farther away and then right up close, squinting at it. Finally the officer handed the passport back. Potter wandered toward him with the same vague look on his face he’d had since the hospital. His wand was actually clearly visible, sticking out of his jeans pocket. 

_Shit._

“Go in front of me,” he muttered to Potter, pushing him ahead and stepping behind him. He said into Potter’s ear—but not too close, he didn’t want Potter getting spooked, “I need to shrink your wand.” It wasn’t a sentence he’d dreamed about breathing into Potter’s ear. Or any boy’s ear, for that matter. 

_Shut up._

_This isn’t the time for double entendres._

Potter waved him away irritably. 

He didn’t move, though. Standing just behind Potter, he realised he was going to need to use wandless magic. There was no point trying to use a wand which had been shrunk to a tiny size. 

_Another double entendre._

_Stop!_

_This is serious._

Sometimes when something was really serious and he was nervous, he was prone to bouts of hysterical laughter. He could feel the giggles building up in his chest now, and coughed to try to hide them, unsuccessfully.

_Stop—_

He allowed himself one actual out-loud laugh, which came out as an awkward guffaw. 

_Now._

_Come on._

But he couldn’t do it. The queue was moving forward. 

“No bags?” The security officer asked Potter. 

Potter shook his head. 

“Anything in your pockets?” 

_Shit!_

It happened. He felt it. 

_Shrink Potter’s wand._

He could _feel_ the wand shrinking, even though it was in Potter’s pocket and he couldn’t even see it because he was determinedly looking at a random point in space and not at the incriminating wand. 

_It’s—_

_done._

He had done it. He allowed himself to look at Potter’s jeans pocket. The wand was gone. 

“Empty your pockets, please,” the officer said. 

Potter obeyed. He pulled out the passport, boarding pass, and a piece of dark wood the size of a pencil stub. Potter frowned. “My wand…” 

“You’re alright,” the officer said, gesturing to the scanner and indicating Potter should continue. 

Potter looked confused. 

“Walk through that arch,” he whispered to Potter, taking everything out of his pockets and showing it to the officer. She made him put his wallet in a tray and sent it on the belt toward the X-ray machine, but let him keep his passport and boarding pass. 

He followed Potter through the scanner. Neither of them went off. 

_Thank Hecate._

He breathed a sigh of relief as they moved away from the security check into the duty free shops and restaurants of the airside. He went to check the screens. 

_Boarding._

“We have to go straight to the gate,” he said to Potter. “Frankly I’m starving, but I suppose we’ll get something on the flight.” 

Again he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. Yesterday he’d been slightly wasted by 6pm and then Potter had shown up, and he hadn’t had any appetite after that. This morning he’d been nearly burnt to a crisp upon waking, and then there was the car crash… 

_None of these were good opportunities for a sit-down meal._

_Yeah._

_I love my life._

“Potter?” 

Potter wasn’t even listening. 

_Ugh._

“Potter,” he said, “this way.” He started walking, making sure Potter was following.

_I mean, I’m grateful they sedated him…_

It was another case where people tried to act as if wizards and Muggles were so different, but a magical Healer would have done exactly the same thing with Potter. 

_It’s alright for a day or two, but…_

He just hoped Potter wouldn’t have to be like this for long. 

_Aunt Bella hated it._

He hoped it was giving Potter some relief from his pain. He thought about what Granger had said about Potter’s childhood. 

_It’s a forbidden topic._

_It’s totally off-limits._

_You can’t even go there._

_I’ve known him seven years and he’s never told me anything about his life before he arrived at Hogwarts._

_I mean nothing._

_Not a word._

Granger had been angry. He was sure she would never have told him all that if she were fully in control of her emotions. 

_None of that would be relevant if Potter just had spell damage, though._

Perhaps it was something else. 

_What could be bad enough to bring on the symptoms of spell damage?_

“Hermione,” Potter said. “Hermione should be here.” 

Potter’s thoughts had clearly been running along the same lines as his. He turned to Potter. “I think her flight will have left by now, Potter. And it probably didn’t leave from this terminal.” 

Potter fell silent again. 

He sighed and tried to think himself back into his fantasy about being a holiday rep. But it was no good. The feeling was gone. So much of the time, his fantasies were better and realler than his actual life. It wasn’t just that he could make them perfect and shiny and happy. A lot of the time there were arguments, or disappointments, or other types of pain—but they _meant_ something, and he had a chance to find a beautiful resolution. Unlike real life, which was just him raging against a million unfair, brutal, pointless things he couldn’t control. 

_Don’t you understand how much I want you?_

Goosebumps formed all over his body. 

_I can’t resist you._

He felt the ghost of Potter’s rosebud kiss against his mouth. 

_My pretty little veela._

If it had been any other situation, or anyone else, or if the words had been said in any other way, he would have laughed himself silly.

But the way Potter had said them left no room for laughter. 

Potter had taken his breath away. 

His chest was painfully tight. He knew he needed to forget about what happened, but it was filling him up now, irresistibly. 

_You care about him, don’t you?_

He felt Potter’s tenderness filling him until he felt like it would come out of his pores. He would have given himself to Potter then, and he would now. If Potter stepped out of the air now, golden Time Turner flashing under the bright halogen lights, and said, 

_I’m leaving forever._

_Will you come with me?_

_Will you run away with me?_

He would give Potter a wry smirk and say, _Fuck the Muggle code of conduct_. And he would put his arms around Potter and kiss him until he saw stars.

There was yet another queue at the gate, as boarding had already started. He looked at it in annoyance. 

_Why didn’t I buy Business class?_

“It’s only a couple of hours,” he said to Potter. 

Potter looked even more zoned out now. There were dark circles under his eyes and he really looked exhausted. He shuffled along in the queue as they passed the final passport and boarding card check and walked onto the jetway. 

_Did he sleep last night?_

He thought about what Potter had said this morning about the potion not working on his nightmares. 

_In that case, they weren’t nightmares._

_Because that potion works_

_And if it wasn’t a nightmare, it must have been a daydream._

_Or a memory._

He looked at the back of Potter’s head, wishing he could see what was going on inside it. The familiar smell and sound of airplane was coming to him down the jetway. He could just see the open door of the airplane up ahead beyond the queueing passengers. 

_It’s forbidden territory._

Was the Boy Who Lived, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, afraid of his own memories? 

_What happened when he lived with the Muggles?_

_What’s traumatised him so much that he’s lost control of his magic?_

Potter had been very opposed to visiting Dubrovnik. It was a strange attitude from someone who—he was 99% certain—had never heard of the country of Croatia.

_Has he been there?_

He smiled at the cabin crew as he followed Potter onto the plane and down the aisle. He had to reach out and stop Potter when he reached their row. Potter didn’t seem to have realised he had to sit in an assigned seat. Potter shuffled into the window seat. 

_Does he have childhood memories of Dubrovnik, too?_

_I guess I’m going to find out._

_Fantastic._

_Just fantastic._

_Fuck my life._

“Well, here we go.” He said, fasting his seatbelt. “Summer on the Dalmatian coast. Bloodthirsty killers out for my flesh. I just want you to know, Potter, that if I don’t get to lie in the sun, swim in the sea, drink a vat of wine and dance in any number of underground bars, I will be placing the blame squarely on _your_ shoulders.” He looked over at Potter. 

Potter was already fast asleep.

 

 

 


	57. Changes Around Here

**Harry**

It was late evening. Dudley had long since been in bed. He had been lying in his cupboard most of the day, staring at the ceiling, tracing patterns on it with his finger sometimes, or just staring at the cracks in the plaster. Now it was dark and he couldn’t look at anything. He just lay there until he felt like a disembodied spirit, totally alone, floating in the universe. 

He could hear voices. He had been listening to the downstairs noises all evening. There had been sounds of eating tea from the kitchen. There had been no washing up sounds, because since neither he nor Auntie were cooking, Uncle Vernon ordered takeaways every night. There had been the sound of the telly for a long time. There had been the sound of Dudley going upstairs to bed. 

And now there were voices. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Dudley were in the living room. 

He strained to hear, but he couldn’t make out exactly what was being said. 

He rolled out of the miniature bed and landed quietly on the floor. He didn’t do much walking lately. He didn’t really have the energy. But he could crawl, and now he pushed the door of his cupboard open and poked out his ear, just one ear, to try to hear better. 

He still couldn’t hear properly. He got up onto all fours and crawled out of the cupboard, around the door and down the corridor toward the living room. He stayed as small and quiet as he could. Now he could hear the voices, because the door to the living room was open. It wasn’t just voices, though. There were other noises. 

Someone was crying. 

He froze as still and quiet as he could, barely breathing. 

Uncle Vernon was crying. 

He couldn’t see, but he could picture exactly where they were both placed in the living room. Auntie would be lying on the sofa under a duvet, which was where she had been every day since she returned from the hospital. Uncle Vernon would be sitting in his armchair which was kitty corner to the sofa. 

“Why,” Uncle Vernon said. It sounded like a sob. “Why, Petunia?” 

There was no response from Aunt Petunia. He was staring at the carpet because he didn’t dare to raise his eyes and peer around the half-open door. The light from the television fell on the carpet. He could just hear the nine notes of the BBC logo ring out and see the red, blue and green bands flashing past underneath the letters.

Uncle Vernon was sobbing so hard he could hardly get his words out. It sounded like some great beast—a hippopotamus or a rhino—lowing in pain. “Dudley is your son. I’m your—your husband.” 

Silence from Aunt Petunia. 

“Why— _him_?” The sound was terrible. Each word was like a grunt, or a growl, and each word sounded like pain. “Why not— _us_?”

Silence, except for Uncle Vernon’s animal noises. 

“The least you could do was love your own son, Petunia. The least you could do was love _me._ ” 

He heard a shifting, creaking sound and couldn’t resist not knowing what was going on. He moved, as quietly as possible, to the other side of the corridor, where the improved angle meant he could look through the half-open door. 

Uncle Vernon had slipped out of his chair and onto the carpet, and had hauled his big, heavy body over to the sofa, pushing the coffee table out of the way so he could lean his elbows on the sofa and look Aunt Petunia in the face where she was lying under the duvet, facing the telly. 

“I remember when you told me you were expecting, ’Tunia. That day I knew I would do anything for you. Do you remember, I left right away? You panicked. But I had gone to the high street and I bought you that ring. Solitaire, white gold, 18 karat. Where is it?” Uncle Vernon had taken hold of Aunt Petunia’s hand, so fragile it looked bird-like, and was holding it and showing it to Aunt Petunia. “ Where is it? Three months after that day, you made me the happiest man alive. I put a gold band on this finger, ’Tunia. Where is it?” He dropped Aunt Petunia’s hand, turned his face away and sobbed into his own hand. “Why have you taken your rings off?” 

Aunt Petunia still said nothing, didn’t move, didn’t respond. 

_Is she dead?_

_Did my Auntie die?_

Uncle Vernon let out a roar and cast his eyes to the ceiling. He looked at Aunt Petunia again, his face haggard. “Are you that—unhappy—here with me, Petunia? Are you… are you going to leave?” His voice had sunk to a rough whisper. 

No response. 

_What if she did die?_

After a moment, Uncle Vernon spoke again. His voice sounded different now, less raw. “It’s not me. It’s not Dudley. It never would be. Stupid ruddy idiot, Vernon. It’s _him_ , of course.” A hard edge appeared in Uncle Vernon’s voice. “Now he won’t look at you. Won’t speak to you. Doesn’t want anything to do with you.” 

A sound from the sofa. A small, frail sound. Auntie was alive. 

“Auntie’s little angel isn’t so angelic any more, is he?” Uncle Vernon said bitterly. “What are you going to do now, Petunia? Now you’ve lost your—precious— _favourite_.” 

A gasp from under the duvet. 

Uncle Vernon stood up. His face was purple, but his voice was strangely calm, chillingly calm. “I’ve given you everything for ten years, Petunia. I’ve been there through your illness. I supported you when wanted to adopt that foundling, though I never understood it, not for a moment.” 

He felt light-headed and wondered if he was going to faint. 

“But now you have to choose, Petunia. It’s me, and it’s Dudley, or it’s that boy. And if that’s what you want, I’ll take Dudley tonight and I’ll walk out of this house and I’ll never bother you again. You can have your precious little Harry and good luck to you.” 

Silence. 

Then Auntie said, in the same frail voice, as faint as a bird calling through the trees: “They’ll be back for him. They won’t give up.” 

Uncle Vernon froze, stood there immobile for several seconds. Then he raised his hands to his head and said in an emotionless voice, “I never understood how a woman could love a child off the street more than a boy she bore out of her own body.” 

There were more sounds from under the duvet. Now it sounded like Auntie was crying. 

“You’re heartless,” Uncle Vernon said. “You’ve ripped out my heart, and you’ve ripped out Dudley’s, because he knows you love that boy more than him.”

There were no more words, just the same sounds from Auntie. 

“That’s it, then,” Uncle Vernon said. “Is it?” He started to move toward the door. 

He was frozen, watching Uncle Vernon’s legs approaching. He scrambled to the side so that he was halfway hidden by the open door, but Uncle Vernon surely had seen him already, knew he had been listening. He crouched, barely breathing, as Uncle Vernon’s legs walked past. 

_He didn’t notice me._

_He can’t even see me._

“Vernon,” the voice came from the living room. It was shrill and high, almost like a scream of terror. 

Uncle Vernon stopped. 

“Vernon,” the voice came again. “Don’t—don’t go.” 

He raised his eyes and looked at Uncle Vernon’s face. Uncle Vernon was only a few feet away. Uncle Vernon was staring off into space, 

_Did they erase me so even Uncle Vernon can’t see me?_

Uncle Vernon raised his eyes to the ceiling and then walked back into the living room. “Fine,” he said. He already seemed to be holding his head higher, swinging his arms with more authority. “There’s going to be some changes around here,” Uncle Vernon said. “Dudley is going to be left in no doubt that he is _our_ son. The _preferred_ son. He turned ten while you were in hospital, you know, ’Tunia. Well, we’re going to have a party and celebrate properly this time,” Uncle Vernon said. “It’s going to be his best one yet. Yes," Uncle Vernon said, a tone of satisfaction creeping into his voice. "There’s going to be some changes around here, alright."

He turned around and crawled, slowly, back to his cupboard. He couldn’t go to school, because they had erased him. He couldn’t see his friends, because they had forgotten him. Maureen couldn’t help him, because she had forgotten him too. Mr. Figg was coming back, and no-one could save him. 

But he knew who was to blame for all of it. 

_Auntie._

*

He woke up. He was in bed, bright sun in his eyes. 

_Where am I?_

He sat up slowly. He had never seen this room before. 

_What is going on?_

He swung his feet over the side of the bed. He was still fully clothed. His trainers were lying on the floor nearby. He wandered out the door and did another double take. Then he realised he was not in a house at all, but a hotel. 

The door next to the one he had come out of opened and Malfoy appeared. “Afternoon, sleeping beauty.” 

He shook his head. Malfoy must have been waiting, listening for his door opening. “Where am I?” 

Malfoy smiled. “Dubrovnik.” 

_Fuck…_

“Well, don’t get all enthusiastic or anything,” Malfoy said with a grin. “Do you want to eat? Come on. There’s a restaurant downstairs.”

He followed Malfoy. The ground floor of the hotel was open, light, airy and filled with sunshine. There was a stone courtyard filled with tables. He sat down at one opposite Malfoy. 

“Isn’t this fantastic?” Malfoy said, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. “I love it here.” 

“How did I get here?” 

Malfoy opened his eyes, squinted, and then put on a pair of sunglasses which had been hanging on the neck of his t-shirt. “The flight got in about midnight. Then we took a cab here. You were pretty out of it. They really gave you some strong shit at that hospital.” Malfoy glanced at the waiter who had come over. “Octopus salad,” he said. “Molim.” 

The waiter turned to him. 

“Er…” he had no idea if he was even hungry. What food did they have here? He actually had no idea where Dubrovnik was on a map. Was it a country? A city? It was just a word from his deep past, with no connection to the real world. 

“Pizza?” Malfoy suggested. 

“Er—” He remembered what pizza was. Muggles ate pizza a lot. “Okay.” 

“Two,” Malfoy said. “Margarita pizzas. And a glass of house white for me.” 

A cool breeze blew through the courtyard. The sky overhead was incredibly blue. The building was old, made of pale stone with orange-red roof tiles. “Where am I?” 

Malfoy glanced at him. “Dubrovnik.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “But where is it?” 

Malfoy’s face was expressionless—perhaps because of his sunglasses. “It’s in a country called Croatia. Sort of between Italy and Greece.” 

_Italy_

_Greece_

He had heard of those. “Never heard of it,” he said. 

Malfoy paused. “It’s a new country,” he said. 

“What do you mean?” 

Malfoy pushed his sunglasses on top of his head and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “It used to be part of a bigger country called Yugoslavia. A few years ago they split off and formed this country, Croatia.” 

He frowned. “Really?”

Malfoy nodded. 

_Well, I never heard anything about that._

“How did it happen?” He asked. “They just… made their own country?” 

Malfoy lowered his voice again. “There was a war.” 

He frowned. “There was?” 

Malfoy nodded. 

“When?” 

Malfoy cast his eyes skyward for a moment, as if trying to remember. “It started in first year,” he said. “Just a month or two before first year started. And it went on until fourth year.” 

“How do you know so much about it?” 

“We used to come here every summer, before the war.” 

_I don’t understand…_

The waiter came back with their food. The pizza looked really good. He remembered what it was, now. Uncle Vernon used to get takeaway pizzas all the time. 

He started eating. 

_Mmm._

_This is amazing._

He realised he was still feeling very calm. 

_This should last you until tomorrow, at least._

“Well,” Malfoy said. “After lunch I will go and try to get in touch with a contact here in the Old Town. I think he—”

“You mean a Death Eater?” He asked. 

Malfoy nodded. 

“I don’t want revenge on the Death Eaters any more,” he said. He felt totally calm as he said it, as if he had already realised, mentally processed and accepted it. 

Malfoy frowned. “What?”

“I’m ill,” he said. “I need to be put in St. Mungo’s.” 

Malfoy glared at him. “Are you having a laugh?” 

“I can’t explain the details,” he said, because the Horcruxes were a secret, “but killing Voldemort damaged my mind. You know, like Neville’s parents.” 

Malfoy took a large gulp of wine, wiped his mouth and looked at him again. 

He shrugged. “I’ll be there for the rest of my life. Sort of like Gilderoy Lockhart. You know, he was a big celebrity? And everyone thought he was really brave and had done all these heroic deeds. But then he lost his mind and they put him away in Mungo’s and forgot about him.” 

Malfoy was looking at him intently. “Are you saying _you’re_ like Gilderoy _Lockhart_?” 

He looked up at the sky. “Basically. And you know, the odd thing is they always _said_ I was crazy. Not quite right in the head. Insane. They said it in second year. They said it when Voldemort came back. And Uncle Vernon said it, too. I always thought they were wrong, but…” he shrugged. “Obviously they were right all along.” 

Malfoy gripped the table tightly. “Potter, you are _not_ insane.” 

He nodded. “Yes I am. I have gone mad. I actually went mad before once, when I was little. Now it’s happened again.” 

“Potter, people don’t just _go mad_. It’s a myth. You can recover from mental illness. You can live with it and still have a—good life. It doesn’t have to be a—a death sentence. And if—if you have spell damage, well, we’re going to get you a Healer and they will sort you out.” Malfoy got up, went around the table and sat down in the chair next to him. “Potter, I _know_ that you are not going to spend the rest of your life in St Mungo’s.” 

“Oh, sure, you know,” he said. 

“No, Potter. I _know_.” Malfoy was staring at him intently. “I—I _know_ that you are going to get through this.” 

He looked at Malfoy. “Don’t you want to taunt me or laugh at me? This is your chance. You know I don’t buy this sincere act.” 

Malfoy looked at him for a moment longer, then dropped his gaze, got up and went back to his chair and downed the glass of wine in one. 

He ignored Malfoy and continued eating his pizza. 

“I can prove it,” Malfoy said, putting his glass down. “I can prove it to you. Veritaserum. Or—or you can do Legilimency on me. Potter. Which do you want?” 

He shook his head. “I’m sure you have some sneaky way of getting around any of those methods. I may be crazy, Malfoy, but I’m not _stupid_.” He finished his pizza and took a drink of water. “So. Are you going to take me back to England, then?” 

Malfoy took his sunglasses off his head and put them on. Then he pushed his hair, which had fallen into his face, behind his ears. Malfoy raised his head. The sun flashed off the rainbow lenses of his shades. “Alright. Let’s leave now. The door is right there.” 

*

_I remember this town._

He remembered how everything was made of stone of the same colour: the floor, the houses, the walls. He remembered how the stones that made up the ground were polished smooth in some places, as if people had been walking on them for hundreds or thousands of years. He remembered how orangey-red the roof tiles were. 

He was sitting on the lip of a trickling fountain, waiting for Malfoy, who was sending an Owl. 

It didn’t really matter what a mad person thought about, because their thoughts were nonsense by definition, so he didn’t need to worry about the visions any longer. 

_It doesn’t bother me._

“Right,” Malfoy said. 

He looked up. Malfoy was standing there, arms crossed. 

“I don’t think we need to wait more than a few minutes,” Malfoy said. “This is one of the main landmarks in the Old Town. They shouldn’t have any trouble finding us.” 

“Who?” He asked. 

Malfoy sat down as well. “Look, Potter,” he said. “I’m not the right person for you to be around right now. You need to be with your friends.” 

He looked at Malfoy suspiciously. “Who did you Owl just now?” 

Malfoy spread his hands. “Dumbledore’s Army is in the city.” 

“What?” He said angrily. “You’re pulling my leg.” 

“You _said_ you wanted to talk to them,” Malfoy said.

“I _did_ talk to them—I talked to _Hermione_.” 

“When I spoke to Granger yesterday,” Malfoy said. “She told me you need to be with your friends, and—” Malfoy took a deep breath. “I agree. Being with me is not helping you.” 

“What does that have to do with—” He interrupted, and then stopped talking. 

A woman was standing nearby. She had yellow-blonde hair and was wearing a sundress and clutching a handbag, and wearing shiny patent leather court shoes which slipped on the shiny flagstones. 

It was Aunt Petunia. 

He almost fell off the fountain. 

She took a hesitating step forward, then another. 

Malfoy noticed her and lifted his sunglasses onto the top of his head. 

He stared at her, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to look away. “Auntie.” 

“Harry,” she said, staring at him.

"Er--" Malfoy said. "Can we help you?" 

Her eyes shifted to Malfoy and she took another step forward, peering at him. “Draco?” She said. 

Malfoy frowned, glanced at him, and then back at Aunt Petunia. 

He gazed at Aunt Petunia and said nothing. 

Then Aunt Petunia gave a sort of shudder, turned around, and hurried away as fast as she could down the large thoroughfare which ran down the centre of the city. 

Malfoy was looking at him. “Potter?” He said, and then raised his hand and pointed. 

He looked. Neville, Ginny and Ron had appeared out of the cool shadows of a side street and were marching toward him. 

“Bye, Potter,” Malfoy said, and Disapparated.


	58. My Name Is Petunia Evans

**Draco**

_When will I see you?_

He remembered the images which had gone through his mind when he had turned himself in to the Light after the Battle of Hogwarts, when he’d been begging Potter to keep him. Begging Potter not to send him away. When he’d told Potter about the life debt.   
****

_The Muggle cafe. The rich colours of an Indian summer, the free birds in the clear sky. The rushing crowds hurrying back and forth to St Pancras station. And there, Potter, caught in a sunbeam that flashed off his glasses._ _This time Potter didn’t turn away, didn’t walk into the building. Potter had seen him and Potter was walking toward him._

_I'll never see him again._

He remembered the thoughts which had gone through his mind when he’d been tied up in the Gryffindor boy’s showers.

_Across a court room, maybe, in a few months' time. He'd be sneaking looks at Potter, his heart racing after months of not seeing him. Potter would barely notice he was there._

_After that?_

Potter would be seeing him again. Potter would be getting a visit from Draco Malfoy in a couple of years’ time. 

_But I will never see him again._

He had only Disapparated to a quiet alleyway nearby, where he could see Potter talking to the Weasley and Longbottom. 

Then he set off to follow Potter’s aunt, and found her without too much difficulty. He had the feeling she wasn’t really trying to disappear, that she wanted Potter to follow her. He made his way down Placa ulica, keeping her yellow-blonde hair in sight. Soon enough he was close enough that she could probably see him. She disappeared under the awning of a cafe. 

By the time he got there his heart was pounding.

_Potter’s Muggle family used to come here on holiday._

_Something is going on here._

He ducked into the cool, dark, air conditioned interior of the cafe and made his way through the front room into another dining room in the back, where he found her sitting at a table against the far wall, as if she wanted to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. 

She raised her eyes to his. She looked terrified. 

“May I sit down?” He asked, stopping at the table. 

She nodded, but said nothing. 

He sat down. He held out his hand. “I’d introduce myself, but it seems you already know who I am.” 

She held out her hand a little timidly, but her handshake was firm. She seemed to be steeling herself. “You’re Draco Malfoy.” 

“And you are…” 

“My name is Petunia Evans,” she said, waving to the waiter. She sat up a little straighter. “Would you care for coffee?” 

“I’ll take a glass of wine,” he said. 

Petunia Evans nodded to the waiter. “One coffee,” she said, “and—”

“White,” he said. 

“White wine,” she said to the waiter, who nodded and withdrew. 

“How do you know who I am?” He asked. 

A tiny smile stretched her mouth. “You look exactly like your father,” she replied. 

There was something familiar about her. The longer he looked at her, the more he felt he recognised her. Finally, it clicked. “Did you used to have red hair?” He asked. 

Her eyes widened. “My natural hair colour is red,” she said. 

“I knew I recognised you from somewhere,” he said. “My mother has a photograph of you on her desk.” 

He could not have predicted the impact this statement would have on Petunia Evans. She went red from the neckline of her sundress to the roots of her yellow-blonde hair. The waiter appeared with the drinks and Petunia took a sip of her espresso. Her hands were shaking and the porcelain clattered as she put the tiny cup back down. 

“Really?” She said in a high-pitched voice. 

He would normally have come straight out with it:

_So you must be one of my mum’s ex-girlfriends._

But Petunia Evans seemed so shaken that he managed to find some tact, if only for Petunia’s sake. 

_So Mum dated Potter’s aunt?_

_That explains the Dubrovnik connection._

_Didn’t Potter have an uncle, too?_

So Potter’s aunt used to come here in the summers to meet up with Mum, presumably behind her husband’s back. His mind was going back through an index of Mum’s exes, trying to place this woman on the timeline. 

_But…_

That would put Petunia in the Marion era, and he was pretty sure Mum had never cheated on Marion, so… 

_Maybe Father was wrong about that._

_Poor Marion._

Regardless, the main point was that Mum didn’t keep photos of her exes.  

_The fact that she is Potter’s aunt, well…_

_I don’t know._

He forced his attention back onto Petunia Evans. “What brings you to Dubrovnik?” He asked pleasantly. 

“Oh,” she said. “I love the Adriatic coast. We used to come here on our holidays all the time, before the war.” 

“So did we,” he said, ever so slightly pointedly. 

She shot a glade at him, and blushed again. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Well…” She placed her clasped hands on the table and stared at them. “Isn’t it lovely to be able to come back, now.” 

_Yes._

_It is, actually._

“Yeah,” he said, and smiled at her. 

She smiled back at him, tentatively. 

“I thought Potter had an uncle and a cousin, too,” he said. “Are you here with—”

“No,” she interrupted. “You see, I’m going through a divorce.” 

_Oh._

“I’m…sorry to hear that,” he said. 

“No,” she said somewhat forcefully. “It’s for the best. My son… lives with his father. It’s all for the best.” She took a gulp of water. “So I find myself… quite free, again.” 

_Skinny, uptight, Muggle._

_She’s mum’s type, alright._

“You see,” she continued. “My husband never—he could never understand why I wanted to adopt my sister’s son.” 

He took a sip of his wine. 

She glanced at him. “Maybe N-Narcissa has told you all of this already.” 

He shook his head. 

She cast her eyes downward, almost as if she was disappointed to hear this. 

He leaned forward. “That doesn’t mean anything, though,” he said. “She never tells me anything. Only what she thinks is necessary for my training. Believe me, if she has a photo of you on her desk—”

Petunia was learning forward. He realised that she was hanging on his every word. 

“You must be very important to her.” 

Petunia Evans didn’t go red this time. She went white, as if she were about to faint. She stared down at her clasped hands, clasped so tightly her fingers were going white. “I doubt that,” she whispered. Then waved to the waiter and pointed to his white wine and held up one finger. “Draco, I haven’t seen your mother in almost twenty years.” 

_Twenty years…_

Well, that put the Marion theory to rest. 

“Nineteen years,” she said, receiving the glass of wine from the waiter and taking a sip. “Nineteen years ago…” she trailed off, then shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t want to sit here and listen to an old woman natter on.” 

“No, no—” he said. “I—I’m really glad to meet you. Seriously. I, er—actually, maybe you can shed some light on something.” 

“Me?” She looked surprised.

He nodded. “Potter’s been…” he searched for the words, then tried to rephrase. “What was his childhood like?” 

Again he could not have anticipated the effect of this question on Potter’s aunt. She went white again, and pursed her lips tightly. 

_I think I said the wrong thing…_

A hundred questions had just sprung into his head, and it was all he could do to keep himself from bursting out and asking them all at once.

She sighed and took another sip of wine. “Sometimes I feel I’ve spent all this time with one foot in two worlds, never really living in either.” 

He didn’t say anything, just nodded to encourage her to continue talking. 

She looked at him. “You have to understand,” she said. “I’m a _Muggle_ , Draco.” 

_Oh, I know._

He supposed Muggles didn’t understand how it was for magical people. Because they didn’t understand magic, didn’t know it, they couldn’t pick a wizard or a witch out of a line-up. But for a wizard, a Muggle was… disabled. That was the only way he could phrase it in Muggle terms. That was what hit the eye—hit the senses—for a wizard or a witch. Disability. 

But as he had discovered, familiarity bred ease, and comfort. He was comfortable with Muggles now. He could see past their mundaneness. Past the fact that their bodies were just that… fleshy, meaty bodies, with nothing higher or more powerful running through them. 

Mum always told him that Muggles used their minds as magic, instead. 

But he had never been able to reconcile that view. Wizards and witches had minds, too, and no less sharp than those of Muggles.  

_This is so surreal._

He couldn’t imagine what Potter would think if he found him here now, drinking wine with his aunt. 

He couldn’t have imagined three days ago that all of this would have happened. 

“Things—work differently—in the Muggle world. This baby—” Petunia said. “This baby was placed on my doorstep. I had just had a baby less than a year earlier—they are almost exactly the same age. And this baby appears, with a note saying my sister and brother-in-law are dead and they wanted me to take care of him.” Petunia put her glass down. “Which is not true, by the way.” 

He frowned. “She was a witch.” 

“Exactly,” Petunia said. “See? _You_ understand. At first I thought the baby was, you know—”

He raised his eyebrows. “A squib?” 

She nodded. “That was the only reason I could think of that he would be taken away from the magical world. My sister and I did _not_ get on. In fact, we had been estranged for several years before her death. But I knew that had nothing to do with the baby being given to me or not. I knew that a magical baby would _stay in the magical world._ ” 

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I would have thought, too.” 

“I thought, maybe it’s all gone wrong and the baby has no magic. But… I was fairly certain that wasn’t the case…” She glanced at him. “You know—he was quite an important baby…” 

He smiled grimly. 

_Right._

Even as a baby, Potter had been more important and more special than anyone else. 

“Anyway,” she said. “What could I do? He had no birth certificate, no records of who he was at all, and on top of that, his parents didn’t even _exist_.” 

He frowned. “What do you mean?” 

Her hands gestured frantically. “For us, Muggles, you—you have to have a record of your birth. A piece of paper that says where you when you were born, where, and to whom. If you don’t have that… you don’t exist.”

He chuckled. “That’s absurd.” 

She was sitting back in her chair. “After I had Dudley, I went into a depression,” she said quietly. Then she said, “Now they call it postpartum depression. Then, when Harry arrived…” She closed her eyes. “I had something to live for again.” 

He tried to make sure no expression showed on his face. 

_You had a husband and a new baby, and you had nothing to live for?_

“I had to fight to keep him,” she said. “You won’t believe how hard I had to fight. They took him into care. For almost a year.”

He wondered if she had ever told anyone this story before. 

“I thought I’d never get him back. It seemed impossible. There was an investigation—”

“An investigation? Like, by the police?” 

She nodded. 

“But… why? Wasn’t it obvious that he was your nephew?”

She tapped her fingers on the table. “She was a witch, Draco. She ceased to exist as a Muggle when she went off to Hogwarts.” 

_Oh…._

“The Muggle Liaison Officers,” he said, remembering all those Martin Miggs comics. 

She closed her eyes. “My parents thought I was mad for believing I had a sister. You see, they knew who she was when she came home, but as soon as she left, they forgot about her. I learned to suppress it while I was around Muggles because it just caused me problems. But at some point, when you get lonely, you can’t go on lying. You have to tell _someone._ I told my husband, and then he started thinking I was mad, as well. So there I was, my husband thought I was mad, and I wanted to adopt this abandoned baby while I already had one the same age at home.”

“What happened next?” He had a strange feeling growing within him. 

She sighed. “They let me foster him. It took another two years—no, almost three—but finally the adoption order was granted.” She stared off into the distance. “And he was the loveliest child. Like a porcelain doll. Those enormous green eyes and shiny black hair. My friends loved him. He was quiet as a mouse. So good. And he adored me. He was such a baby… he never wanted to be away from my side…” 

_I always heard Potter didn’t get on with his Muggle family._

_At least, that’s what they said at Hogwarts…_

“Well,” he said. “Potter has been a bit off recently. Maybe you could talk to him. It might make him feel better to see a familiar face…” 

Petunia stiffened immediately. Her posture had been relatively relaxed, but now it went rigid again. Her lips pursed. She pushed the wine glass away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. 

_Ah…_

She took a deep breath. “My nephew and I are effectively estranged.”

He really wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I thought he went to visit you every summer?”

“They made him,” she said. “He made it very clear he had no desire to be anywhere near me. And he was an absolute horror. So angry. He never used to be angry.” She started tearing her napkin into pieces. “I… used to be something like his mother,” she said. “But that’s been dead for a long time. And it’s all I deserve,” she said, slowly tearing the napkin. “For being the worst mother on the face of the Earth.” 

“No—” he said. 

“Yes,” she spat, viciously, but the venom was not directed at him. He could see that it was directed inward, within herself. “My other son is now estranged from me as well. So you see, I lost my parents, then my sister, then two sons, one after the other, and of course a husband. And…”

_Mum?_

“I’m like a poison,” she said, arranging the paper napkin, now in strips, on the tablecloth. “I slowly poison the goodwill of anyone near me.” 

_I…_

He didn’t know what to say to such a statement. He wanted to say something reassuring, but didn’t trust himself. 

 _What_ can _you say to that?_

“Harry’s better off without me,” she said. “They all are. That’s why I’m alone now.” 

_I… I’m sure you’re not a poison._

Then she said, “It’s not like me to be so open. I never wanted to talk about my depression. It was very—shameful to me. Or—anything that happened in the past. Especially with Harry. It’s not easy to admit you are an abject failure.” 

_Yeah._

_That’s true._

He finished his wine. 

_I thought I could help Potter by doing this…_

_But clearly… I can’t._

_And Potter is not my business any more._

He was tempted to just stay here on his own and continue drinking, but he supposed he should go to the house. He took out his wallet, but Petunia held up her hand. 

He held out his hand again and they shook. “It was nice to meet you,” he said, and he meant it. Then he realised something. 

_When she saw me, she must have started thinking Mum was here._

_She might be… hoping._

He thought of Potter. 

_When will I see him again?_

Petunia said she hadn’t seen his mum in nineteen years. 

_Nineteen years._

“Mum’s not here, by the way,” he said. “I’m here by myself.” 

“Oh,” she said. 

_Yeah. She was hoping._

He was extremely tempted to add, 

_But you might like to know she’s currently “single”._

But he didn’t. Something stayed his hand. 

_I’ll have to ask mum about this mystery girlfriend._

“Well, good bye,” he said, giving her a small wave, and walking away. 

“Good bye, Draco,” he heard her words follow him out of the restaurant. 


	59. Very Ill

**Harry**

“Harry!” Ron called, breaking into a run and then coming to a stop near him, as if he wanted to hit him but couldn’t quite bring himself to. Ron gripped his upper arm tightly, shook it a little. “Harry, mate.”    
****

“Heya, Ron,” he said.

He squinted through the bright sunlight at Ginny and Neville. “Hi, Harry,” Neville said tamely. “We were worried about you when you disappeared the other night.” 

“Yeah, you sounded really concerned in that note you left on Malfoy’s car,” he said. 

Ginny laughed. “Come on, Harry. Can’t you take a joke?” 

“Not from you.” 

Her face darkened.

“We couldn’t really wait for you any longer,” Neville said quickly. “We couldn’t waste any more time.” 

“Yeah, great,” he muttered sarcastically. 

Ginny and Neville glanced at each other. “Ron, why don’t you deal with this,” Ginny said, taking Neville by the arm and walking away. 

He and Ron were left alone. 

_Ron’s here._

He felt comforted by Ron’s familiar presence. No weird stuff would happen with Ron, would it? Ron wasn’t going to turn around and do a Hermione—was he? 

_I was quite angry with him._

_But I can forgive him if he just acts normal for a moment._

“Harry, what are you doing here? This is right strange. How did you get here? Where did Malfoy go? Is he coming back?” 

He rubbed his hands over his face. “I came here,” he said. “To hunt Death Eaters. But now,” he continued, “I’m not doing that any more.” 

“Harry,” Ron was looking at him. “Are you alright? You don’t look… you don’t look well at all.” 

He looked at Ron. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not. I’m very ill.” 

“Oh, Merlin,” Ron put a hand over his mouth. “Oh, Harry. What is it, mate?”

He shrugged. “I’ve gone mad.” 

“Blimey,” Ron said again, sitting down next to him on the fountain. “I didn’t believe them, Harry,” he said in a whisper. “I didn’t believe them when they said you needed to go to Mungo’s.” 

“I didn’t _then_ ,” he said. “They were _wrong_ about that.” 

“Oh, cripes,” Ron said. 

Ron sounded panicky. This wasn’t helping. 

_Aunt Petunia._

_Aunt Petunia was here._

“I just went mad in the past two days,” he snapped. “Don’t you understand?”

“Harry, just calm down,” Ron said. 

_Calm down?_

His heart started pounding. 

“Oh Merlin, Harry,” Ron said. “You’re shaking. What on earth is wrong with you?” 

The fear was looming. He could feel it. “I can’t breathe,” he choked. He couldn’t breathe. His heart was beating so fast it felt like a blur. 

_Why was Aunt Petunia here?_

“The Muggles are looking at you,” Ron muttered, and started dragging him away by the arm. 

_Get. Off._

Ron was flung backward across the flagstones. “Merlin’s bollocks, Harry,” he groaned. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

He collapsed to the ground. His chest hurt. 

_I’m dying._

“Flipping heck,” Ron said, coming back over and kneeling down next to him. “Harry,” Ron said, shaking him. “Snap out of it. You’re making a scene.” 

_This is it._

Ron tried to make him stand up again, then gave up. 

_I’m going to die._

A Muggle man stopped and said something to Ron, who waved him away. 

He felt each moment pass in exquisite slowness. 

Every agonising second that passed felt like an age. 

At some point, Ron pulled him up, put his arm around his shoulder to support him and started leading him away, into one of the side streets that he, Neville and Ginny had come from. “I’m going to Side-Along you, Harry,” Ron said. “I’m taking you back to headquarters. I don’t know what else to do with you.” 

The sudden suffocating squeeze of Apparition made his heart start racing again. 

_No._

By the time it stopped, he couldn’t breathe again. He crouched on the bare wooden floorboards. Sweat was dripping down his nose and falling into the dust on the floorboards. He stared at his hands, 

“Ron! Harry!” Someone called, bounding over. “Hey—what’s up with Harry?”

“He’s—he’s like this,” Ron said helplessly. 

“Cor, he looks _rum_.” 

“Yeah, I’ve no clue what’s wrong with him.” 

“Come on, Harry,” the voice said, and he felt two sets of hands on his arms, picking him up. 

He struggled. 

“We’re just trying to help you, Harry.” 

“Stop fighting us, Harry.” 

He was taken to a room and sat down on a bed. Then the door was closed and he was left alone. 

_The screaming._

_When I saw Dementors._

_I thought that screaming was my mum screaming for Voldemort not to kill her._

But he had seen his parents’ death last year. He had seen what had happened. His mother hadn’t broken down in screams, not when she confronted Voldemort. She had remained quite calm as she traded her life for his. 

_That screaming was not my mum._

_That screaming was Aunt Petunia._

_It was Aunt Petunia screaming when they took her away._

_Screaming that Mr. Figg was coming for me._

_Screaming that she needed to protect me._

He had heard that screaming while he crouched in the bush, in the field next to the motorway. 

*

He must have fallen asleep, because he woke up. 

_There’s no hope for me._

_I’m done for._

_It’s time for me to be thrown away like Lockhart._

_Like Neville’s Mum and Dad._

The door opened. 

“Harry, mate?”

“Hey Ron,” he said. His voice sounded tired, old and creaky. 

Ron’s footsteps approached, then Ron came into view and crouched down next to him. “Are you alright, Harry?” 

He shook his head. 

“Wish I could Floo Mum,” Ron said. “She could tell us what to do with you. But this place isn’t connected to the Floo network and none of us know how to set up a connection.” 

He closed his eyes. It was somewhat comforting to just listen to Ron talking. 

“This is just a derelict house,” Ron continued. “Everything’s filthy. Nothing works. It’s worse than camping. I was all for taking tents, but Ginny wasn’t having it…” 

He would never be an Auror, like he had dreamed of. And he would never get that future he had dreamed, the one where he and Ginny were married with three cute kids, where Ron and Hermione were married… 

“Hermione,” he said. 

Ron fell silent. Then he said, “She left, Harry.” Ron was staring at the floor. “And she ended it with me.” 

“I talked to her,” he said. 

“You—you did?” Ron asked. “When?” 

He couldn’t remember. He had lost track of time. “She was going to the airport,” he said. “She was going to Australia.” 

Ron sniffed thickly. “I don’t understand what I did wrong. I know I left, and I’m _sorry_ , Harry—”

“S’okay,” he said. He wasn’t angry at Ron any more. He closed his eyes so Ron wouldn’t be embarrassed. He could hear that Ron was crying, at least a little. “She shaved off her hair,” he said. 

“What?” Ron said. 

“She shaved off all her hair. It was, like, that long,” he said, holding up two fingers about an inch apart. 

“She… _shaved her head_?” Ron said incredulously. “You _saw_ this?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Eurgh!” Ron made a noise of disgust. “I—no, Harry, I don’t buy that. What, she had a shaved head like a—like a boy?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, she looked like a boy, come to think of it.” 

Ron sniffed again. “She told me our relationship was wrong,” he said. “She said it was all wrong and she couldn’t do it any more. Why would she say that, Harry?” 

He stared at the ceiling, which was stained with brownish water stains and had no plaster in some spots. “I don’t know, Ron. She said she had been unhappy. Maybe it wasn’t about you.” 

“Not about _me_?” Ron said. “No, no, Harry. You see, I think this is about Lavender. She’s jealous. She’s convinced I’ve still got something going on with Lavender.” 

_I don’t think it’s that…_

“Wonny?” A girl’s voice came to them, and there was a light tapping on the door. 

Ron jumped. “Er—yes, Lavender?” 

The door opened a bit. “We’re going to eat soon,” Lavender said, peeking inside. “Oh, hi, Harry,” she said timidly, then looked at Ron with large eyes. 

“Er, right, okay, thanks Lavender.” 

The door closed behind her. 

He turned to Ron with one eyebrow quirked. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Ron said quickly.

“Did you tell your face that?” 

Ron’s face and ears were bright red. He leaned forward. “Harry, she’s been _all over me_. Last night, we all slept at the Burrow,” he said. “I was pretty upset about Hermione leaving, you know, and Lavender could tell. I ended up bedding down in the attic, by myself, because the house was so full. And an hour or so after we went to bed…” 

“What? What happened?” 

“She came up,” Ron whispered. “And…” Ron raised his eyebrows. 

He raised himself on one elbow, gaping at Ron. “Did you—Ron, did you…?” 

Ron nodded, slowly, and then a smile started to spread across his face. 

He lay back on the pillow. 

_Ron and Hermione aren’t going to get married like in my dream._

_I guess it was stupid of me to think they would._

_But I wanted things to be… nice._

_Well, what did I expect?_

_Everything’s ruined, anyway._

“I thought you…” he trailed off. “I thought you were in love with Hermione.” 

Ron cleared his throat. “I _am_. But Hermione went to Australia, Harry. And apparently shaved off all her hair like a _bloke_ ,” he added in a weirded out voice. “Lavender is…” 

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said bluntly. 

“You should be happy for me,” Ron said. “You know, I wasn’t exactly happy myself last year. It was a bloody _miserable_ time, Harry, and I think I’m owed a little bit of— _fun_ after all of that.” Ron stood up. 

“Fun,” he repeated. 

_Fun?_

“Yeah,” Ron said. “It’s that thing that happens when you stop taking everything so _bloody_ seriously all the time. Dumbledore’s Army is _fun_ ,” he said. “It’s _really_ fun, actually. You should—you should give Ginny a chance, Harry. She’s actually—pretty good at this.” 

“I told you,” he said. “You need to send me back to England. I need to go to St Mungo’s. I've been doing involuntary magic. I-I think I've set things on fire.” 

Ron stared at him for a few moments, then rubbed his hands over his face vigorously. "Right-ho, Harry," he muttered, “let’s just get something to eat, alright?”

He stood up and followed Ron out of the room. Ron hadn’t been lying when he said it was a derelict house. The walls were dirty and covered in graffiti. The floorboards were bare. Some doors hung off their hinges or had holes gouged in them. There was a flickering light overhead. There was a strange, rhythmic pounding sound and voices shouting in chorus. 

“Come on,” Ron said, hurrying along the corridor. “We’re late.” 

They turned a corner into a large room, bare except for a large, rickety table made of a piece of wood perched on top of cinder blocks. About a dozen people were sitting around it, stomping their feet on the floor, clapping their hands and chanting some kind of Weasley-twins-sound rhyme about wanting to eat.

_What the hell…_

He immediately felt uneasy as he felt all of their eyes on him. 

Ginny stood up. “Sit down,” she said brusquely. “We’ve been waiting.” 

“Er, sorry, Gin,” Ron said, hurrying to sit down at a free seat next to Neville. 

He looked around. The only other free seat was the opposite end of the table. He went and sat on it reluctantly. 

Ginny sat down and started eating. As if on cue, everyone else did, too. 

“Hey, Harry,” George said. 

“Oh, hey,” he said. 

He hadn’t noticed George Weasley sitting there, maybe because George Weasley didn’t look like himself. He was hunched over, his face sallow, spinning a fork over and over with his thumb and two fingers. “I heard you cracked, Harry,” George said. 

“Er…” he wasn’t sure how to respond to that. There was some kind of flaky pastry on a tray in front of him. He picked up a piece and bit into it. It was filled with spinach and some kind of white cheese. It was pretty good. 

He looked around the table. Everyone was eating quickly. The food looked like it had been quickly picked up at a supermarket or takeaway. There was bread, cheese, some cured meats, and the flaky pastries. And there were loads of pots of what looked like plain yogurt scattered around as well. 

He counted thirteen people at the table including himself. Ginny, Neville, Ron, Luna Lovegood, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, Lavender Brown, George Weasley, Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnett, Lee Jordan and Oliver Wood. 

_Oliver Wood._

He remembered seeing Oliver Wood at the Battle of Hogwarts. 

_Weird._

_This is so weird._

He ate a bit more of the pastry and some cheese that was lying nearby. George Weasley drank slowly from a yogurt pot, and ate nothing else.

Ginny stood up and said, “Clean up team, your orders are unchanged. Ron, you’re on security detail. We turn in at ten pm. We need an early start tomorrow to make the journey to Albania.” 

Ron stood up and said, “Alright, Lee, Oliver and, er, Lavender, you’re on security detail with me.” He sat down again. 

Ginny walked out of the room. 

Neville stood up. “Thank you all for your hard work today.” There was some applause, then then everyone stood up. 

A few people said, “Hey, Harry,” to him, but most people seemed to be ignoring him or avoiding looking at him. He soon found himself standing there alone apart from Neville. 

“Harry,” Neville said, waving a hand at him, indicating he should join him. “Come with me.” 

He followed Neville through a door and found himself outside. The house stood on a broken patch of land, covered in rocks, rubble and weeds. A stray dog poked its nose around an overflowing rubbish bin nearby. “We found this house empty,” Neville said. “Figured we might as well camp out here for a night. When did you get here?” 

“Last night,” he replied. 

“Where did you stay?” Neville asked. 

“Erm… in a hotel,” he replied. 

“With Draco Malfoy?” Neville asked, with a sideways glance at him. 

“Er…yeah,” he said. 

“In the same room?” 

“No.” 

“Oh,” Neville said. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. None of my business.” 

He frowned. “What?”

“Ron said you had some kind of… episode today,” Neville said.

That immediately put him on the defensive. He crossed his arms. “And?”

Neville sighed. “Harry,” he said. “Why are you here? With us?”

He frowned. He was here because Malfoy had buggered off. “No reason,” he said. 

“We got an Owl from Draco Malfoy this morning, just after we arrived,” Neville said. “I don’t know how he knew we were here. He said you were ill and needed urgent care.” 

“Oh,” he said. 

“We weren’t sure whether to believe him,” Neville said. “It didn’t seem like a very… Draco Malfoyish thing to do.” 

“Right,” he said. 

“Harry, you need to give me something here,” Neville said, sounding a little frustrated. “What is going on? Ron said you said something about St Mungo’s.”

He frowned. “You should know better than me about that. Weren’t you the ones who send those wizards in the lime-green robes after me?”

“Actually, that was Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Neville replied. “As if any of _us_ —Personally, I think Kinglsey overreacted. Harry, are you okay or not? You’ve been acting very strange, very erratic.”

“I’m mad,” he said. “Just like your mum and dad.”  

Neville combed a hand through his hair. “Harry, you’re _not_ like my parents. Okay? I can tell you that just by talking to you. You’re coherent. You understand what I’m saying to you. And my parents aren’t _mad_. They have permanent and severe spell damage as a result of the Cruciatus curse.” 

“I still think I need to be put in St Mungo’s.” 

Neville pursed his lips. “I don’t think that’s what you need, Harry. I think you’re just going through a really bad time at the moment and you should talk to someone about it. An emotional Healer. Someone like that.” 

“What’s the point of all this?” He asked. 

Neville took a deep breath. “We’re on a highly delicate mission right now, tracking a number of escaped Death Eaters. Tomorrow morning we will be moving down the coast toward Albania. I’m sorry, Harry, but we can’t help you.”

“You can’t help me.” He repeated. 

_Why would I think you could help me?_

_No-one can help me._

“You can stay here tonight,” Neville said. “But tomorrow morning you need to leave. Ron can go with you in the morning to try to find a Portkey back to England. But he’ll be needed in the afternoon.” 

“What are you, his boss?” He asked sceptically. 

“No,” Neville said calmly. “I’m Ginny’s deputy. And Ron is _my_ deputy. We take leadership pretty seriously here in Dumbledore’s Army,” Neville said. “And all the responsibility that comes with it,” Neville said, looking at him.

“Just say ‘the DA’,” he muttered. He was feeling more and more shit by the second. “It’s shorter.” 

“It’s _Dumbledore’s Army_ ,” Neville replied firmly. “And if you want a place in it, you’re going to have to clean up your act. Because we don’t accept that kind of behaviour. Not any more.” 

“Fuck off,” he muttered, crossing his arms tightly. 

“Good luck, Harry,” Neville said. “I hope things get better for you soon.” 


	60. Wine And Weed

**Draco**

He didn’t have a key to the house, but it didn't take much magic to unlock the door. He let himself in and let the familiar smell infiltrate his nostrils. ****

_How long has it been?_

_Since… since before I started at Hogwarts._

Once the war started, it hadn’t been safe to come here, even as wizards. He had followed it on the news. 

_There was shelling._

That was to say, they had tried to destroy the buildings of this old city. One of the oldest and most beautiful cities in Europe and Muggles had tried to destroy it in a war. 

_Hideous._

Hogwarts had taken some damage during the battle. He didn’t know how much. But he had seen the chunks of masonry strewn around the lawns. After the Reptile’s return, they had stopped leaving the country every summer. The summer after sixth year, they hadn’t left the house at all. That was why the most recent safe house for them to visit had been after fifth year. 

_Although we didn’t leave the country in fifth year either…_

By that point both he and his mother had been Servants, and it wasn’t possible any more. 

He closed and locked the street door and slumped against it. 

_Wine._

_I need wine._

He hauled himself off to the pantry behind the kitchen and started hunting. There were no wine cellars here, no row upon row of dusty bottles laid down by Malfoys of old. There were a few bottles of local wine which Mum must have bought the last time they were here. He uncorked a bottle of white which looked promising, looked around for a glass, then gave up on the glass and drank straight from the bottle. 

_Ahh._

There was a small terrace up on the third floor which looked out over the red roofs and the Adriatic. 

_That’s a good place to be._

There was a table and chairs out here, and a washing line strung up from wall to wall. Mum had had a thing about playing Muggle when they came here. 

_She used to wash clothes herself, in water._

_And then hang them on this line._

_I always found that so strange._

He leaned his head back and drank a good few glugs. 

_What if I don’t see Potter again for nineteen years?_

He set the wine bottle down on the tiled floor of the terrace by his chair. 

_How will I endure it?_

He tried to picture his life, _sans_ Potter, nineteen years from now. He would be almost forty years old, and Sir’s son would be almost twenty. Would he be like a father to Lynx? A brother? 

_I can’t picture it._

He didn’t see how he would still be in the wizarding world in 2017. 

_I can see myself driving a Dodge Viper down the coast of California._

_I’d be living in a beautiful house built by a famous architect._

_I’d do all those things that people do when they live in California._

_Maybe I’ll become a surfer._

_Though the salt would be murder on my hair…_

In just three days together Potter’s presence had become familiar. Now Potter wasn’t there, he missed him. Now that he had to think about the rest of his life without Potter, he felt empty. 

_Happy, Sir?_

Sir had known he liked Potter. He didn’t know how Sir had figured it out, but he had. 

_Are you happy I learned my lesson?_

No. Sir would not be happy at his sadness. That wasn’t how Sir was. 

In the field that night, he realised he would need to kill his love for Potter. 

_I thought my love for Potter was pure._

_Unsullied._

_Like nothing bad could touch it._

He thought that after all the awful things which had happened in the past two years, this beautiful thing had formed on its own, fragile but perfect. 

_I was wrong._

_It was never pure or unsullied or perfect or beautiful._

_It was wrong._

_It is wrong._

In sixth year, he had hated Potter so much during the day that sometimes it was all he could do to stop himself from taking out his wand in a lesson and cursing him as hard as he could. 

_I stepped on his nose._

He could still remember the feeling of Potter’s face under his boot. The feeling as his nose gave way. The thrill of exhilaration— of validation. 

_That’s all he deserves._

He had been sick afterward. He had sat through the entire feast, watching Potter covered in blood, unable to eat a bite.

_And I still thought Potter deserved it._

In sixth year, he hated Potter so much at night that when he lay there, trying to sleep, all he could see was Potter’s face. He hated Potter so much that when he slept, Potter was all he saw in his dreams. 

_This is all your fault._

_It’s all down to you._

_I hate you, I hate you, I hate you._

When Potter started following him, he stopped sleeping. He sat in his room, smoking, night after night, until he was on the point of delirium. Until he started to think he could never come back from this.

_This must be how Aunt Bella feels every day._

He remembered one evening in particular at the end of that summer after fifth year. He and Mum had returned home after a long day with the Reptile and the other Servants. He was feeling nauseous and wanted nothing more than to go to his room and watch videos and forget about what had happened. 

He had started going toward his room when his mother said, _Hold on a moment._ The words sounded casual but her tone was not. 

 _What?_ He turned to face her, chin jutting out insolently. 

 _You’re going to leave now? Aren’t you?_ But her words weren’t angry now. In fact, they sounded desperate. Pleading. _You’re going to defect now, aren’t you, Draco?_

He had stood there, wishing she would stop talking. Maybe he would listen to his Suede CDs for a while before watching The X-Files.

 _Say something!_ She seized his shoulders and shook him. 

He thought he might go to HMV tomorrow. He needed some new music. 

 _Explain yourself, Draco!_ She stared at him and when he still didn’t respond, she let out a growl of frustration, let go of him and pointed at an oversized vase on the table in the middle of the vestibule. It exploded in a shower of flowers and water. A carnation hit him in the chest and fell to the floor. _Sorry_ , she said quietly. _Let’s sit down and have something to eat._

They ate in the parlour, informally. He was hungry—they had been with the Servants since before dawn and had not been allowed to eat or drink all day. The Reptile did not seem to need to, so he had decided they didn’t either. 

 _Don’t do this._ She said, only after they had finished eating. 

 _Do what?_ He said, cluelessly. He knew he needed to come up with a good lie, one his mother would buy, after what happened today. But his head felt fuzzy and he couldn’t think. 

 _I know you want to help Harry Potter with his fight against Riddle. But this is_ not _the way to do it, Draco. I know you like the idea of being a mole for him in Riddle’s camp. I know it seems like a noble gesture._

He sat there in a state of growing shock. Mum thought he wanted to be a Servant so he could pass secrets to the Light. 

She didn’t know he had become a Servant because he was never, _ever_ going to give Potter a chance to humiliate him again.

 _Riddle will victimise you,_ she had said. _You know he would assign someone more capable to the task if he just wanted Whitebeard dead. He is going to take every opportunity to humiliate you._

He just shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He felt light-headed with the surreality of the situation. Sir had told him about this. Sir had told him it was one of the essential skills to undercover work. Sir had told him that most of the time, others would fill in gaps with the story that made the most sense to them. Sir had told him that as long as they trusted you, others would invent lies _for_ you. 

 _Draco…_ she had sighed. _Harry clearly places a lot of trust in you. He depends on you. But you can be a friend by joining him and—and contributing to the fight while you’re with the Light. John will help you, Draco. You know that._

It was like he was undercover within his own family. Or within his own self. He had betrayed his mother and father and Sir and his ancestors and he had been doing so for years and years. He was—he was nothing more than scum. Any punishment the Reptile gave him, he surely deserved. 

 _And Draco_ , she continued. _I know that Harry Potter and the Light are totally consumed with the Reptile, as you call him. But remember, this is how Whitebeard intends it.   All attention and resources diverted to Riddle. I believe Riddle will be defeated within a few years. We must not lose sight of our larger objective. This is but one battle in a much larger war._

He had nodded. 

His mother had looked at him silently for a long time, and then said, _I understand. I was like you once._ She stood up. 

He sat there, unable to believe his luck. He hadn’t had to say a word. She wasn’t going to make him go to the Light. 

 _I am going to take certain steps in order to protect you,_ she said. _I’m not concerned about this task you have been given to slay Whitebeard. Make no mistake,_ he _has no fear of Riddle._

She took a deep breath and said, _Malfoy Manor will become the headquarters for Tom Riddle and his Servants._

His head snapped up. He had expected her to say that she was going to get someone else to kill Dumbledore so he wouldn’t have to. _The Reptile_ , he said. _In our house?_

She nodded. 

 _No. No!_ He shouted, standing up. _You—can’t!_

She looked at him calmly. _I don’t trust Riddle. He presents an image of control and calculation, but he is weak and impulsive. He may decide to kill you on a whim. Or have you tortured. Or grant you to one of his lackeys as a slave._

He felt sick. 

 _The ancestral blessing granted to you by this home_ , she said, _is the strongest protection available. There is no other way._

 _Father will never agree to this_ , he protested. 

She had scoffed in incredulity. _Do you think your father wants to see you dead, maimed or raped?_

He felt like he was going to faint, or be sick. He put his hand over his mouth. 

_Or did you think this was all a game, Draco? Nothing to take too seriously? That those men are just playing at cruelty?_

He shook his head. 

 _You’ve made your choice_ , she said. Her voice was bitter. _And now you’ll have to live with it. Just as the rest of us have to live with the choices we’ve made._

He took another gulp of wine. The sun was starting to slide down the sky in the west, and the light was mellow. Birds were wheeling in the sky, free and carefree. 

_My love for Potter was wrong from the start._

_How could love come out of a twisted and miserable background like that?_

In the field, with Potter, he had thought that one day he would need to stop himself from loving Potter because Potter would never return his feelings, and over time that would start to poison him. 

But now he knew he had been wrong about that. 

The poisoning had begun a long time ago. 

Potter had been poisoning him for years. 

Or maybe it was more accurate to say that he had been poisoning himself with Potter. 

Who would have known that resentment and caring were so similar? That love and hate were almost just the same emotion, barely distinguishable from each other? 

_This is who I am._

_A liar._

_A coward._

_A cheat._

_Incapable of loving without hating in equal measure._

Harry Potter was better off as far away as he could get from Draco Malfoy. The farther, the better. At least he had only kissed Potter three times, and now he would not be able to damage him any more. 

A noise from within the house startled him. It sounded like someone was moving around, knocking into furniture. He gripped his wand and stood up. A terrifying possibility had just occurred to him. 

_Greyback._

_What if it’s Fenrir Greyback?_

_What if he’s found me?_

He had been trying his hardest not to think about the Servants, or having to come into contact with them again—let alone plan machinations to allow Potter to arrest them—for the past three days. Now he was shaking with adrenaline, eyes scanning the rooftops around him, wondering if he could escape across them. 

_Where can I go?_

_Is there anywhere else in the Old Town I could go?_

Then he heard it. Someone was singing. 

_Singing opera._

Someone was singing—yes, it was the March of the Valkyries. Strauss. 

_Father._

“Dad!” He shouted. 

The singing stopped. “Draco?” 

He went to the stairwell and looked down. His father was coming up the stairs. He caught sight of him and started to run, taking the steps two at a time. When he got to the top, he lifted him in a bear hug.

Dad’s hair was hanging in messy, unkempt strands. He was still wearing his silk dressing gown, but at least he had pyjamas on underneath it now. His eyes were rimmed with red and his skin was pallid and had a greenish hue to it. 

“Daddy, what are you _doing_ here?” he asked, leading Father onto the terrace and sitting him down in a chair. 

“You’ve brought wine,” Dad said, spying the open bottle, picking it up and taking a long drink. “So have I!” From the pocket of his dressing gown he produced two bottles of wine which he recognised from the pantry downstairs. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Draco,” Dad said, starting to empty his pockets. “You made off with my best pipe, didn’t you? Little scamp,” he chuckled, starting to fill his pipe, his fingers a little clumsy. 

_He brought pipe weed._

_Thank Hecate and her sisters._

Dad must have noticed him eyeing the pipe hungrily, because he waggled a finger at him. “Now Draco, you’re going to end up like your old man,” he said, lighting the pipe and taking a preliminary puff or two. “A degenerate of the worst kind.” He laughed raucously and passed the pipe to him. 

_Oh thank Hecate._

With the first lungful he felt a wave of relief wash over him. It deepened with the second. 

“Now,” his father said. “We’ve got wine, we’ve got weed. We can have ourselves a proper little party, can’t we? Just like when we hid away in the library of an evening, where those awful bastards couldn’t find us.” 

He had always felt grateful that he had a father to whom he could tell anything, who was more like a friend than a parent.

“Tell me my darling,” his father said. “What’s the latest news? What’s been going _on_ with you?”

He opened a second bottle of wine. He was starting to feel much better now that Dad was here and they were having a good time together.

“Well,” he said with a smile. “I …” 

Dad sat up straighter. “Oh my, what? _What_? I can just _see_ that you have something juicy to tell me.” 

He knew he was blushing. “It’s about Harry Potter,” he admitted. 

Dad’s eyes opened wide and his hands went to his mouth. “Ugh!!” He exclaimed. “I knew it. I _knew_ it! I knew there was something going on there!” 

“Well…” he said. “I mean, there’s nothing going on…” 

“My darling, there _will_ be,” his father said. “Look at you. Those spells worked wonders. You’re a stunner now, sunshine.” Father looked at him proudly. “Tall, elegant, thin as a whip. They’ll be trailing you night and day.” 

He smiled. _I’m not bad now._

“I do think you went rather _pretty_ , though,” Father said, scrutinising him. “Maybe too pretty.” 

He pushed his hair back from his face. “Well, I like being pretty.” 

“Draco, _no-one_ likes a man to be too pretty,” Dad said. 

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t care what they like.” 

“And what _are_ you wearing? Aren’t those women’s things? The—necklace?” Father gestured at his tank top and choker. 

He could feel himself getting angry and ashamed. “No. They’re _my_ things.” 

“You don’t go out of the house like that, do you?” 

He had never dared to, but he said, “Yeah. So?”

“Oh, Draco,” his father put two fingers to his temple. “You have so much to learn. How will you be taken seriously? All of this is fine when you’re at home, but when you’re in the world, you need to—”

“What?” He said sharply. 

“How do you think it would be for me, turning up at the Ministry of Magic—like I am _chez nous_?” Father drew on his pipe. 

“But you _hate_ going to the Ministry!” He exclaimed. “You _hate_ putting on that act!” 

Father ignored him. “Besides,” he said, smoke curling from his nostrils and mouth. “John never liked me when I went too pansy.” He drank deeply from the bottle. “Harry Potter isn’t going to like you if you go too far on that front. A man likes a real man, you know?”

“I _am_ a real man!” He wanted to shout, but the words came out weak, unconvincing. 

“Think of Sirius Black. You should have seen him when he was younger. He was the picture of masculinity. So handsome.” 

“Dad,” he said. “Sir didn’t care about Sirius Black. And he didn’t care if you like to dance to Strauss or wear silk robes or—or if you’re _pansy_.”

His father looked at him sceptically. “Draco, I have thirty years’ experience of keeping a man. Get back to me when you have even _one_.” 

He scowled. “Potter likes me the way I am.” 

The moment he said it, he realised that it was true. 

 _He_ had liked Draco Malfoy. 

And that was something. 

Because even Draco Malfoy didn’t like Draco Malfoy. 

His father smiled widely. “ _Really_.” He leaned forward. “What happened…come on, you can tell me.” 

He crossed his arms. “It… was just one time. Well, two times.” 

Father squeezed his arms. “My baby! I’m so happy for you. How was it? Did it hurt terribly? You did that spell I taught you—”

“No—” he said. “We… we just kissed.” 

“Oh,” Father looked a little disappointed. But then he said, “Well, that’s sweet, isn’t it?” 

“He said…” his voice was a whisper. “He said I was his veela. His pretty little veela.” 

Dad clasped his hands together. “Oh Salazar,” he said. “My heart is melting.” 

“He said,” he whispered. “He said he loved me.” 

“He _said_ that?” Father exclaimed. “By Salazar’s _beard_ , why didn’t you have sex with him?” 

“He… didn’t want to,” he said quietly. 

His father frowned. “But you… did?” 

“I did,” he admitted. “I… really wanted to.” He swallowed. “A _lot_. He… started kissing me. Like, just kissing my jaw…slowly…” 

“Sounds rather seductive,” his father said shrewdly.

“Exactly. That’s exactly it. We started kissing for real, like, _really_ intense—I thought he…wanted me. And then I tried to…” 

“Suck his cock?” His father asked innocently. 

“No!” He said, shocked. “Dad!? No. I just tried to pull him down on top of me. He told me we had to stop. And then he… told me to leave.” 

Dad was agape. “He told you to _leave_?” 

He nodded. 

“Oh my poor darling,” his father said, reaching out and enfolding him in a hug. “How awful.” 

“Why?” He said. “Why did he do that?” 

Father looked at him. “Darling, that tells me very clearly how he feels about you.” 

“It does?” 

Father took a large gulp of wine. “If he stopped himself, at that time, even though you were willing, he must have known it wasn’t right. And he would only have done that if he truly cared about you. If he truly loved you.” 

“But why did he—” he gestured, angry. “Why did he start?” 

Father looked at him. It wasn’t _pity_ , surely… “Draco, I’m sure he wanted to as well. But sometimes we have to go right up against the line before we realise we need to make a choice.” Father sighed. “You’re so young. You’ll… you’ll see what I mean.” 

He wanted to cry. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had known this was true, but he had been too angry and embarrassed to admit it. 

In that case… 

That meant that it wasn’t just a one-off mistake on his part. 

That meant… 

If Potter really loved him… 

_He really loved me._

“Do you really think so?” He asked his father, the smallest smile starting to break through the frown on his face. 

His father smiled and nodded, and placed a kiss on his forehead. “How could I ask for a more wonderful son,” he said. “My treasure.” 

_Oh, Father…_

_If only you knew…_

_How awful I am._

And it was the same with Potter, he realised with a feeling as if his heart was being ripped out of his chest. Potter might come to feel differently about him, might come to love him ( _how_ he had no idea), but that didn’t mean it was right. It didn’t mean he was right for Potter. It didn’t mean he was good for Potter or could bring something good to his life. 

He’d always thought that his love for Potter would remain unrequited. 

That when it came time to destroy his love for Potter, it would be unrequited. 

He’d never thought he would have to destroy his love for Potter, knowing it was returned. 

Knowing Potter loved him back. 

He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t going to do anything. It was too painful for any reaction except several deep drags on the pipe, and more wine. 

_That’s how you cure pain._

_People think it has to be endured._

_But that’s not true._

_Lots of things can make pain better._

_Here are two of them._

“Cheer up now, darling,” Father chucked him under the chin. “You two will work it out. Look at John and me. We made it work against huge odds, you know.” 

“Or I’ll end up like Mum,” he said glumly. 

“With a parade of beautiful lovers? There are worse fates, Draco.” 

_I need to ask about Petunia—_

_Yes_

That was a good way to take his mind off Potter. 

“Dad,” he said. “You know that woman on the desk in Mum’s study? The one with the red hair?” 

His father looked at him, a bit of a strange look. 

“Do you know who she is?” 

“That’s one of your mother’s girlfriends,” Father replied. “I thought you would have worked that out for yourself by now.” 

He raised his eyebrows at his Father. “Why would I, when she doesn’t have pictures of _any_ of the others? And—did you know she’s Harry Potter’s aunt?” 

His father paused in refilling his pipe to look at him. “Yes,” he said. “I know that.” 

“I met her today,” he said. 

Father frowned. “You _met_ Petunia Evans?” 

He nodded. 

Father sat back and dragged on his pipe. “Well, that’s a turn out for the books.” 

“What _happened_?” He asked. “She seemed… really upset about Mum.” 

“Did she?” 

He frowned. “Yeah. She did. Dad, tell me!”

It was very unlike his father to hold back on gossip about Mum. It was one of their main topics of conversation. 

“Tell me what she said,” his father countered. 

“She… knew who I was,” he said. “She said I look just like you.” 

His father smiled. “Accurate. Except much _prettier_.” He glared at Dad, who held up his hands. “It’s a compliment! Darling! Carry on.” 

“And I told her I recognised her from a photograph on Mum’s desk.” 

“Hoo!” Father said in amazement. “Go on.” 

“Well, then she told me she was getting a divorce…” 

Father’s eyes opened wide. “ _Divorce_?” Then he grinned wickedly. “Keep talking, Draco! What did she say next??”

“Then she started telling me about her problems _adopting_ Potter, and she asked if _Mum_ had told me this story already,” he raised his eyebrows expectantly. 

His father’s face fell a little. “What did you tell her?” 

“I told her _no_!” He snapped impatiently. 

Father held up his hands. “Draco, you need to ask your mother about this. It’s not right for me to tell you.” 

He stared at Dad, feeling incredibly betrayed. “But you tell me _everything_!” 

Dad shook his head. “Not this.” 

“I can’t believe you won’t tell me!” He said angrily. “How can you keep this from me?” 

Dad lowered his voice. “Draco, I think you have already discerned out that woman was the most important person in your mother’s life, but that all ended twenty years ago—”

“Nineteen,” he interrupted. 

“Yes, alright,” Dad said. “We’ve all made sacrifices to try to survive, Draco. Your mother included.” 

He shook his head. “It’s Harry Potter’s _aunt_. It’s so— _random_. How do they even _know_ each other? How does no-one know about this?” 

Father shook his head. “Whatever do you think? Because it was all a secret, of course,” he said. “It doesn’t take a mage to work _that_ out. Anyway, this topic is closed. Ask your mother. But not before I deliver the news that Petunia is divorced,” he said, rubbing his hands together with something of a wicked grin. 

“I love you, Dad,” he said, smiling. 

His father laughed and tousled his hair. “Love you too, darling. Now,” he said. “Let's get properly trollied. Eh?"


	61. What Happened Last Year

**Harry**

He listened to Neville’s footsteps receding into the distance. 

 _How would Neville_ know _I haven’t gone mad?_

 _It’s_ my _mind, not_ his. 

 _I_ did _go mad._

There was something he needed to talk to Ron about. 

_He’s on security detail._

_Ginny was really ordering people around._

_I don’t know why they do what she says._

He didn’t know what ‘security detail’ would involve, but at a guess he thought Ron might be patrolling around the neighbourhood or around the perimeter of the house. He started walking. There were several dingy sheds and outhouses on the plot, throwing deep shadows. Before long he heard a sound—unmistakably human. A soft laugh, then a sound like soft breathing. 

He walked a bit further, and he saw them. Ron had Lavender Brown up against the corrugated iron wall of a shed and was kissing her. 

_Eurgh._

He cleared his throat and they sprang apart. When Ron saw it was him, he looked relieved. “Oh, it’s just Harry.” 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Lavender said to him, annoyed. 

He glared at her. 

She reached up and gave Ron a lingering kiss, then walked away, brushing past him brusquely. 

Ron looked a little dazed. He touched his lips disbelievingly. 

He felt annoyed with Ron suddenly, really annoyed. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to Hermione,” he hissed. “Lavender came to your room? At night? Doesn’t that just show you she’s just a—a—”

“Oi!” Ron hissed. “Don’t talk about her like that. She’s amazing. I can’t _believe_ I let her go before.” 

“She only likes you now because you’re a _deputy_ or whatever.” 

“So?” Ron said uncomfortably. “I’ll take my chances where I can get them. This is a chance for me to _be_ somebody.” 

“ _Be_ somebody? Being a lackey for your sister?” 

“Harry,” Ron said. “You don’t get it. This is big. Dumbledore’s Army is—”

“It’s twelve people, Ron,” he said. 

Ron shook his head. “Harry, it’s more than that but I can’t tell you exactly how many. You’re not part of Dumbledore’s Army.” 

He felt his own jaw drop. “Ron,” he said. “I _founded_ the DA. You all _elected_ me to be the leader.” 

Ron shook his head. “It’s all changed. This was all going on while we were camping in the woods and not talking to anyone. We _really_ should have kept in touch with what was going on at Hogwarts, Harry. I’m realising now what a big mistake that was. To be honest, I’m just grateful Lavender was willing to take me back after that. I’m grateful Ginny and Neville were—”

“You’re _grateful_ for Ginny and Neville?”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, I am, actually, Harry. They really have their shit together.” 

“What are you trying to say?” He hissed. 

“ _Nothing_ ,” Ron said, raising his hands defensively. “Well, okay—listen, Harry. I do think we’ve made a _lot_ of mistakes in the past year and I don’t want to repeat them.” 

He felt so tired and depressed. He’d hoped that he and Ron could go back to how they were before. 

“Harry, please don’t take this the wrong way,” Ron said. “But you’re not very popular at the moment. I know, I know—” he said, seeing him open his mouth to protest. “You killed You-Know-Who. But the rest of us helped too. They were angry, Harry. They still are. I’ve talked to Ginny and she _is_ willing to give you another chance but you _have_ to actually try and not just _expect_ everyone to just do as you say because you’re Harry Potter.” 

For what felt like the millionth time that day he felt his jaw drop in shock. “I can’t believe you just said that.” 

Ron set his jaw. “Also, everyone thinks you’re a mentalist and you need to figure out how to convince them you’re actually trustworthy and sane.” 

“I am mad,” he said. “I _told_ you that.” 

Ron shook his head. “You’re messed up, Harry, but you’re not mad. But you’ve had a reputation for being unstable for years now and it’s not doing you any favours. I’m sorry if all of this is hard to hear but Dumbledore’s Army have a no shite rule.” 

“And you’re playing by their rules now, clearly,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Ron said, standing up a little straighter. “I am.” 

“Right,” he said. “So now I’ve lost both my best friends in two days.” 

Ron raised one eyebrow sceptically. “Seemed to me that you dumped us both when you ran out of Hogwarts like that,” he said. 

He scowled. 

“You _haven’t_ lost me,” Ron said. “But if you want to be friends again—properly—you need to _change_ , Harry.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “It was a good seven years. Bye.” 

He turned and started walking away over the rubble. 

_I was going to ask Ron about Martin Miggs._

“Harry,” Ron said, coming after him. “Where are you going?” 

He shrugged. He didn’t know. He just didn’t want to be here any longer. 

“Are you going back to Malfoy?” Ron asked. 

He frowned. “No. Why would I?” 

Ron lowered his voice. “Look, Harry. This is another thing you missed out on that happened last year. A rumour started going around. About you and Malfoy.” 

“About Me and Malfoy what?” He asked, before it hit him. 

_Oh._

“That you and Malfoy are—” Ron gesticulated, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “ _Seeing each other_ ,” Ron spat finally, as if the words themselves were distasteful to him. 

“Why,” he said, crossing his arms. “Would anyone think that?” 

“Something odd happened where Peeves overheard a conversation between Malfoy and Moaning Myrtle,” Ron said quickly. “Malfoy told Myrtle that he wanted to—” Ron looked as if he could barely get the words out. 

“What?” He said sharply. “What?”

“He wanted to _bum you in the Quidditch showers_ ,” Ron said in a rush. “Peeves made up a song about it and sang it to the entire Great Hall at breakfast. It became the joke of the year.”

He stared at Ron in horror. “Peeves sang a song—about—”

Ron nodded. 

“But—” he spluttered. “Even if—that’s true—that Malfoy wanted to do that—isn’t it obvious that I didn’t—”

“No,” Ron said darkly. “It wasn’t obvious. You weren’t _there_ , so you weren’t denying the rumour _and_ you couldn’t be contacted by Owl or anything. And,” Ron said, his tone still darker. “A lot of people were really upset that you had left. Some really terrible things happened last year, Harry, you have _no_ idea actually. Some people felt abandoned. And we think that those people probably spread the rumour that… you know…” 

“What?” He snapped. 

“That it really happened,” Ron said. 

“Oh my god,” he said. “People think that Malfoy—”

He couldn’t say it. 

Ron said, “There was this story that you and Malfoy started this, er, affair in the Room of Requirement but then you cursed him during a lovers’ spat.”

“Malfoy is _gay_ ,” he said. “Or something, he said another word—”

“You _talked about this_ with him?” Ron said, sounding horrified. 

“No, we didn’t _talk about it._ He just kept bringing up that he _likes blokes_ , and _now_ I guess I understand _why_ ,” he said. “I’m saying, it makes it even worse because Malfoy actually _does_ like blokes, it just makes it sound even more believable.” 

“From what I heard,” Ron said. “Malfoy was really laying it on thick this year. His hair is really long and stuff. So yeah. Some people actually think it’s true.” 

“So that’s…” he said slowly. “That’s why they tied Malfoy up in the showers.” With a growing sense of horror, he felt his eyes widen even further at the implications of this. 

Ron seemed to realise where he was going with this and held up his hands. “Harry, I did not know at that time. I had no idea. They hadn’t told me yet.” 

“But… the others…” he trailed off. “Seamus, Dean—they must have all been… laughing at me. That’s why they woke me up. To show me Malfoy tied up in the showers…” 

Ron was looking at the ground. 

“And then I…” he remembered. “I came to Malfoy’s defence when Neville and the others were about to beat him up. I actually wasn’t defending _him_ ,” he muttered. “I was annoyed at Neville throwing his weight around.”  

Ron nodded. “Then you left Hogwarts with him and we haven’t seen you for two days,” Ron said. “I mean,” he said. “You even _told_ me and Ginny and Neville that you had gone to Malfoy Manor.” 

_So I did._

_Fuck._

_My._

_Life._

“So, so—” he stuttered, flummoxed. “What do they think? I’m really a supporter of Voldemort even though I died to kill him? That I’m secretly a Death Eater and that’s what I was doing all year?” 

Ron shrugged. “I don’t know.” 

“Yes you _do_ , Ron,” he said. “You _know._ What do they think?” 

Ron said, very quietly. “They think you’re a psycho.” 

_Psycho?_

“A maniac. Unhinged,” Ron said. “A few screws loose. One cup of pumpkin juice short of a picnic.” 

He frowned. “Neville just told me he doesn’t think I’m mad,” he said. 

_Since when do I have to rely on the opinions of other people…_

_to figure out if I’m sane or not?_

“Well, there’s mental and then there’s mental, isn’t there?” Ron said. 

“There is?” He frowned. 

“There’s the kind of mental where you hear voices and have to spend your life in St Mungo’s, drooling,” Ron said. “And then there’s the kind of mental where you bum a Death Eater and think you’re the messiah.” 

“ _No there isn’t_ ,” he said incredulously. “Who ever heard of—those are _not_ official categories.” 

“They think there is something deeply wrong with you.” Ron said harshly. “That you’re angry, violent, unpredictable and will do anything to get your own way.” Ron paused for a moment, then said. “This isn’t just new, Harry, this has been going on for years. Remember in second year, everyone thought you were the heir of Slytherin? Then in third year, everyone else was in danger because Sirius Black was hunting you? In fourth year they thought you had done something to trick the Goblet of Fire? Then it seemed like you had killed Cedric Diggory. In fifth year everyone thought you were bonkers because you kept saying You-Know-Who was back—now _don’t_ explode at me, Harry—I know he really _was_ back, alright, but that didn’t change the way they saw you. In sixth year you nearly _killed_ Draco Malfoy with that curse. I mean, the list goes on, Harry.” 

“Thanks for that," he replied. "Succinct summary of how fucked up things usually were at Hogwarts for me."

"Yeah," Ron muttered. "Well, the truth hurts sometimes, Harry."

He narrowed his eyes and felt his lips curling into a sneer. He wanted to say something cutting in response. "So according to them, I nearly killed Malfoy,” he said. “But I’m also sleeping with him?” 

Ron shrugged. “People can be weird like that. My point, Harry, and I know a lot of that stuff was not your fault, but the point is that you’ll have to work jolly hard if you want to convince people that you _can_ be trusted. The thing is, when you bailed this year you lost the trust of the people who still believed in you,” Ron said quietly. “You lost the trust of Dumbledore’s Army.” 

He stared, lost for words. 

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “Are you alright to get back to the town? You basically just walk down that way and keep going straight.” 

_He’s giving me the boot._

"Yeah, well, I don't need you or any of them," he muttered, even though he wanted to shout it. 

"You're fine, Harry," Ron said. "Just get a good night's sleep. You'll be fine. I have to get back to my security detail now." 

_You want to get back to Lavender is what you want to do._

He felt like an old, old man as he turned away and started walking away down the road, back toward the city of sand-coloured stone. Neville had told Ron to take him back to the town, and Ron was just letting him go. Was that because Ron wanted to give him a chance to preserve the last of his dignity, and not be 'escorted' away from the premises... or did Ron just not want to be the DA member who had to dirty his hands with the menial task of taking care of Harry Potter?

He had the sickening feeling it was the latter.

* 

“Harry?” 

He opened his eyes. It was morning. The sun was already bright and hot. Aunt Petunia was kneeling on the flagstones in front of him. 

“Harry, are you alright?” 

He sat up reluctantly, rubbing his eyes. He took his glasses out of his t-shirt pocket and looked at her. 

She frowned. “Did you sleep here?” She said sharply, in that irritated voice that always grated on his nerves. 

“What are you doing here?” He muttered. 

She took a deep breath and said, in a much more measured tone, “Come with me and have breakfast.” 

He didn’t want to look at her. 

She pointed. “It’s just here. Two steps.” 

He stood up, feeling like a toddler being coaxed out of a tantrum, and followed Aunt Petunia inside. They were shown to a table and Aunt Petunia sat down. He sat down opposite. Aunt Petunia asked for coffee. He asked for tea. 

“Why were you in the street?” Aunt Petunia asked. “Are you drunk?”

He shook his head. 

“Do you have any money?” She asked. 

He shook his head. 

Aunt Petunia took out her purse. “Here,” she said. “That’s all the cash I have on me. You should survive for the next week on that.” 

He looked at the money sitting on the table and said nothing. 

“What happened to your arm?” She gestured toward his cast, still in its sling, but increasingly grubby. It was no longer the pristine white it had been when he left the hospital. 

“I was in a car crash,” he replied, looking her pointedly in the eye. 

_Car crash?!_

_How could a car crash kill Lily and James Potter?!_

Aunt Petunia stared back at him, slowly turning red, as if she caught the implication of his words. “Was—was anyone hurt?” She whispered. 

“Just my arm,” he said. “And the idiot I was with at the time took me to a Muggle hospital, so now I’ve got this stinking great thing on my arm for the next however long.” 

 _How long_ does _it have to be on?_

He didn’t know. Perhaps it would fall off on its own when it was ready. 

Aunt Petunia placed her hands flat on the table, looked into his eyes and said, “Harry, I want to apologise.”

“What?” He said irritably.

“I’m not asking you to accept it,” she said. “You don’t want to have a relationship with me, and that’s your choice. But I would like to apologise.” 

“Where are the rest of them?” He asked, bored. “Where’s your dinky Duddy?”

“He’s in the UK with his father,” Aunt Petunia said. 

“Why are you here by yourself?” He asked. 

“Because Vernon and I are no longer married,” Aunt Petunia said. 

 _Why_ him _?_

 _Why not_ us _?_

“Oh,” he said. 

_You have to choose, Petunia._

_It’s me, and it’s Dudley, or it’s that boy._

“I want to apologise,” Aunt Petunia said. “For how you were affected by my periods of depression. I know it was very difficult on you to be my carer. I depended on you far more than an adult should depend on a child. And I want to apologise,” she said, her hands gripping the table tightly. “For my behaviour over the past seven years. I was very hurt when you—rejected me. I responded with anger when I should have acted like an adult and remained caring toward you.” 

He sat there. 

_I wish the memories were false._

_I wish it was spell damage._

_I wish it was because I was a Horcrux._

_I wish none of that had really happened._

“And I’m sorry that I wasn’t able—I mean, that I _didn’t_ —protect you from Vernon, especially that last year you were with us. The truth is, Harry,” she said. “I’m only just recovering from that period now. This isn’t your fault,” Aunt Petunia said, “but every year you returned angrier, and more and more a stranger to me. And that has—” She picked up a napkin and crushed it between her fingers. “That has been very difficult.” 

“So how did you know I was here?” He asked. 

“I didn’t,” she said. “I came here looking for someone else.” 

He frowned. 

_Are you in contact with wizards?_

He’d asked Aunt Petunia this question when she received that Howler from Dumbledore the summer before fifth year. 

“Who was the witch?” He asked Petunia. “The one you tried to get in touch with?”

She stared at him. “So you do remember,” she said quietly. 

He nodded tightly. 

“All these years, I thought…” she said. “I thought he erased your memories.” 

“Erased my memories?”

She sipped the coffee the waiter had brought. “Sometimes I thought he had just made you forget that terrible summer when you turned ten. Sometimes I thought he had erased your whole childhood.” 

He didn’t say anything. 

“That witch,” Aunt Petunia said. She clasped her hands together, unclasped them, sighed and then she said. “Can you wait? For fifteen minutes?” 

He shrugged. 

“I’ll be right back,” she said quietly, standing up and walking away. 

The waiter came to the table and asked for his order. They had British food here. That must have been why Aunt Petunia chose the place. He asked for a full English. He took the money Aunt Petunia had put on the table and put it in his pocket. 

_No, Dumbledore didn’t erase my memories._

_I erased them._

_Or at least, I tried to._

When he went to Hogwarts, he had put it behind him. He had put everything behind him, as if he were a brand new person, as if he had never been a Muggle, as if he had never been a part of any world but the wizarding world. Over time, he had stopped thinking of it at all. 

He had put Harry Dursley in the cupboard under the stairs, and locked him in tightly, and gone off to Hogwarts, to forget about him. 

_That’s who Barry Weasley was._

_The squib from my nightmares._

_Creeping just out of sight._

_Never allowed to be seen._

Barry Weasley, Harry Dursley. The names sounded similar. 

The waiter brought his breakfast on a large platter, and he started eating it mechanically. 

“I’m back,” Aunt Petunia breathed, tip-toeing around him and squeezing back into her chair without untucking it from the table, as if she was trying to sit down without disturbing him. She had a carrier bag with her which she rested on her knees. “This is…” she said. “I’m giving this to you because it might help explain some things. Answer some questions you might have.” She was hugging the carrier bag. “But please, be careful with it. Harry, this is… very precious to me.” She placed it carefully on an empty chair on one side of the table. 

“Do you want anything else to eat?” She asked. 

He shook his head silently. 

She signalled the waiter. “It was nice to see you, Harry,” she said, and she said it in her kinder voice, not the shrill, angry voice he’d become used to hearing from her. “I met a friend of yours yesterday,” she added, as the waiter came over with the bill and she took out her purse and handed him a note. “Draco Malfoy.” 

He almost choked on his sausage. He swallowed. “He’s not my friend,” he said. 

She looked at him sadly. “Oh? Really. That’s a shame. He was a nice young man. I liked him very much.” She stood up. “Good bye, Harry. I hope you’ll come and see me again some day. I’m back at work now, in London. I’m living in Notting Hill.” 

He swallowed and looked up at her. “That’s not going to happen,” he said. 

Her composure, which had held so steady throughout, seemed finally on the point of breaking. “Right,” she whispered, and scurried away without another word. 


	62. Little Miss Malfoy

**Draco**

_Oh Hecate_  
****

The moment he woke up, he regretted it. His head was pounding with a burning pain and he felt as if his soul had been replaced with nothing but an all-consuming nausea.

_What did I do?_

_What did I do last night?_

With a feeling of dread, he combed his memories.

_What if I… Owled Potter?_

_Or… Firecalled him?_

_Oh Hecate… did I send him a Patronus?_

_A pathetic…pissed…Patronus?_

He couldn’t find any evidence in his memories that he done any of those. Thank Hecate.

_I told Dad, though…_

_Shit._

_Yep… I told Father all about it…_

That was such a stupid thing to do. Now Dad thought he was dating Potter, and how was he going to swing _that_ the next time Potter and Father came face to face? 

_I really am my own worst enemy sometimes._

_Ughghgh_

_But_ … 

_Dad said…_

_That Potter loved me._

The thought alone was enough to cut through the pounding in his head and the growing desire to be sick. If Potter loved him, that was… 

 _That is everything._  

When he thought Potter was dead and realised he loved him, something had changed within him. In that moment, he had been given _…_

_Hope._

It didn’t make any sense, because he’d thought that Potter was dead and every fibre of his being was screaming _No._ Something had clicked, he’d thought—no, felt— 

 _I love Harry Potter_  

And he had been given hope. Hope for himself. Hope that he could be saved. 

Hope that he could be redeemed. 

_I was going about it all the wrong way._

He realised that in the Muggle hospital. He and Potter had nearly killed each other. Twice. 

_I don’t want to be that way any more._

_I don’t want to hate the person I love._

Yesterday when he’d spoken to Potter’s aunt, when she had talked about Potter’s adoption, he had felt a sense of connection to Potter he had never felt before. That there was something larger than himself, larger than Potter, which connected them in some strange way. 

_You care about him, don’t you?_

_Yes. I do care about him._

_I know he can care about me, too._

_I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it._

_I’m going to care for Potter._

_From now on._

_I’m not going to bring bad things into his life any more._

_I’m going to be a force for good._

He was away from Potter now and he had no idea when he was going to see him again. 

_Just like in seventh year._

He remembered walking into the Great Hall for the start of term feast. He was in a bad mood because he hadn’t seen Potter on the train, despite spending over an hour walking up and down the carriages, surreptitiously trying to find him. When everyone sat down, it became clear that Potter wasn’t there. Neither were Granger or Ronald Weasley. 

 _That littlest Weasley’s turning into a right fittie,_ Blaise had muttered in his ear. He had ignored him. 

They hadn’t heard from Sir in ages. It was difficult for him to send Owls now that he had married Andromeda’s daughter and was living with her. But now he was desperate to know what news Sir had of Potter, why he wasn’t at school. 

In the days that followed, Potter’s absence made itself felt as a yawning gap in his life. Then an abyss. It was then that everything started to change in terms of how he felt about Potter. 

In sixth year he had thought about Potter day and night—thought about cursing him, about putting his hands around his throat and _squeezing_. 

In seventh year he thought about Potter day and night, but the violence lost its appeal. Instead he thought about Potter’s eyes, how huge and green they were. How deep and vibrant that green was, like light refracted through an emerald. He thought about Potter in his Quidditch leathers, how light and graceful he was when he span through the sky, one hand holding the handle of the broomstick between his thighs. He thought about Potter’s dark hair, that lightning bolt on his forehead, how Potter had looked at him, bloody, kneeling in several inches of water, when he’d cursed his chest open last year in Moaning Myrtle’s toilet. 

In sixth year he went to the girls’ toilets when he wanted a cheeky smoke during Arithmancy, and because Myrtle was the only person he could talk to at Hogwarts, even if she was a ghost. Over time he started visiting her more often. She didn’t care if he got upset. In seventh year, he still visited her, but now every time he went into that bathroom he thought of Potter. Myrtle told him everything she knew about Potter. He would get high and think about how Potter had cursed him there. 

Then… there was _that night_. He had been lying awake for hours, tormented by his own thoughts. He’d smoked several pipes but he still couldn’t get to sleep. Eventually he hadn’t been able to take it any more and he had come up here to find Myrtle. At least there was one person in this castle who would be happy to see him.

 _This is what he did to me,_ he said. _Look._ He started to unbutton the collar of his robes. 

 _Oh—what are you doing?_ Myrtle asked with a shy giggle. 

He knew Myrtle fancied him. Myrtle fancied a lot of teenage boys, especially the ones who would talk to her, which at the moment was just him. He had to admit that he liked the attention. He carried on unbuttoning the robes until he could pull them open and show off his scar. 

Her eyes went wide and she gasped in horror. _Harry Potter… did that?_

He nodded, slowly. The scar was a thousand fine lines criss-crossing the centre of his chest, over his heart, and fanning out in all directions. The highest just reached the hollow between his collarbones. The lowest just grazed his navel. The scars were concentrated over his heart, where they were numerous enough to create a mass of raised white scar tissue. 

 _That is revolting_ , Myrtle breathed, staring unashamedly. 

He pulled his robes closed. _Fine._

 _Oh no,_ she said. _Let me look again. Didn’t they give you dittany?_ Myrtle asked, her eyes raking over his chest in wonder. 

 _Yeah_ , he had said. _They gave me dittany. But the curse was so severe, the dittany didn’t do any good._

 _Oh my goodness,_ Myrtle said. 

He would never, ever know why he told Myrtle. He supposed it was just that he was desperate. His life was rapidly descending into a living hell from which there was no escape. School was torture, home was occupied by the Reptile and Servants and when he tried to sleep at night all he could hear were the screams of that girl he’d cursed. All of this was suffused with a stifling loneliness he had no idea how to relieve. 

 _Actually,_ he said. _That’s not completely true._

 _Oh?_ Said Myrtle. 

 _I didn’t take the dittany,_ he said. 

 _What?_ Myrtle gasped. 

 _I wanted to be able to show everyone exactly what Harry Potter did to me_ , he said. _So no-one can ever say again that he’s so brave and noble and good. This the evidence to prove that lie._

 _Oh, but Harry Potter_ is _good,_ Myrtle said. _And he’s_ fit _… oh, he’s lovely…_

 _Myrtle,_ he said, and he remembered how desperate he had felt when he said it. _I can’t stop thinking about Harry Potter. All the time, I’m thinking about him. It’s driving me mad!_

 _Oh dear…_ Myrtle had said fearfully, clasping her hands together. _Do you want to get revenge for him giving you that scar? Are you going to… hurt him?_ There was an edge of titillation in her voice which gave the lie to her fearful tone. Myrtle was loving this. This was the lifeblood of Myrtle’s afterlife. 

 _No_ , he had said. _I want—I want him to tell me._ He swallowed. _To fuck him._

Myrtle’s eyes flew open. _Whaaaa…_ she trailed off in horror, transfixed. 

It was true. For days he’d had an image in his mind of Potter looking deep into his eyes and saying, _I want you to fuck me as hard as you can_.

 _I want to take him in the Quidditch showers_ , he said. 

Myrtle hovered a little lower, her hands over her mouth, waiting on his every word. 

 _I want to push him up against the tiles_ , he said. _I want him to say my name and—and beg me for more._

 _Oh, that would be…_ Myrtle said in awe. _What would you do next?_

 _I’d fuck him so hard he’d forget his own name_ , he had breathed, picturing it. Pictured water pooling around Potter’s hands and knees on the tiled floor of the shower, Potter’s cries echoing through the shower room. 

Myrtle slumped against the wall. _Goodness me,_ she said, one hand on her heart. 

He had put his face into his hands and started to cry. _I fancy him,_ he sobbed. _I fancy Harry Potter._

Myrtle had fluttered about, unsure of what to do, patting his shoulder with one insubstantial hand. _It’s alright_ , she said. _I fancied Harry Potter too. He used to come and talk to me all the time. I even…_ she tittered. _I even spied  on him in the Prefects Bathroom. While he was taking a bath. You know_ , she said slyly. _I went under the water. And I saw,_ she said. _I saw… you know,_ everything.

He raised his head. _Myrtle_ , he said _. I can’t believe you did that. That’s—that’s disgusting._

The moment he said it, he knew he had made a mistake. Myrtle’s face fell. Then a deep scowl formed on her forehead. You’re _calling_ me _disgusting?_ She said shrilly. _Listen to what you just said to me!_ You’re _disgusting, Draco Malfoy!_

He had apologised and calmed Myrtle down—she hadn’t flooded the toilets in a rage—but when he’d laid down in bed in the early hours of the morning to try to get some sleep before he had to get up again to start the day, he’d had a bad feeling. An uneasy mixture of shame and trepidation. 

_Oh Hecate_

He rolled over in bed, trying to find a cool spot to lie in. Just thinking about this was making his hangover worse. So much worse. His stomach churned in shame. It was enough to make him wish he could just stop existing, right now. 

The next morning at breakfast, he had been drinking a cup of black coffee when Peeves floated through the Great Hall, doing somersaults, arse over face, toward him. The moment he saw Peeves, he knew. _My my my,_ Peeves had cackled, grinning at him upside down. _Good morning, my little Malfoy._ He hadn’t replied. His heart had started pounding. And then Peeves had started singing a song:

_Little Miss Malfoy, sat on a toilet_

_Telling Myrtle all he could say_

_Along came a Peevesie_

_Though he couldn’t see me_

_And listened til he went away_

_Little Miss Malfoy, sat on a toilet_

_Wants to bugger Harry Potter_

_In a shower for hours_

_And now Peevesie’s got ter_

_Laugh til tomorrow’s today_

He dragged himself into the loo, was sick, and then lay down on the cold tiled floor. It felt good against his pounding head. 

He remembered how loud Peeves’ voice had been. The moment Peeves started singing, the Great Hall had gone silent. There was incredulity, then titters of laughter. The younger children had had no idea what was going on. He’d had his back turned to the Gryffindor table, but he hadn’t needed to look to know what the reaction was there. Peeves had flown over to the Gryffindor table and sung the song twice more, while sixth and seventh years from all houses apart from Slytherin stood up, clapping and cheering and breaking down in gales of laughter.

_Don’t._

_Just don’t think about it._

He thought Potter knew. He thought they would have told him.

_I’m sure you know what they’ve been saying about me at Hogwarts._

He remembered Potter in the field.

_They say that you’re … an arrogant rah and probably a Death Eater?_

He’d seen just a hint— a shadow— of _him_ in Potter that night. 

_Potter’s clueless, remember?_

_He doesn’t know anything that happened last year._

He remembered Potter asking him, 

 _What happened at Hogwarts? In general, not just to you. Ginny, Neville. I don’t… I don’t_ understand _._

Potter had let down his guard, just for a few minutes. 

_We both did._

_I don’t know why._

_I don’t understand why._

Even now, after he had kissed Potter and heard him say all those things, the field stayed with him. Something happened in that field which he didn’t understand. Something unbelievable… magical. Somehow an understanding had formed between himself and Potter, if only for a few brief moments…

_Does Potter see it that way?_

_Did he feel it too?_

_What does he think?_

Well, it didn’t matter, anyway. Potter was with Dumbledore’s Army now, and he would know. 

He crawled to the sink and stuck his head under the cold tap. Then he brushed his teeth and staggered out of the bedroom, which gave directly onto the sitting room. “Dad?” 

“Ugggghhhhh…” A groan emanated from the sofa. Father was lying there, one arm over his eyes, his hair fanning out over the armrest.

He curled up in the arm chair next to it, laying his head on the arm rest. 

“The older I get,” Father muttered. “The worse the hangovers get.”

“Father,” he said. “Why are you here?”

_I must have been pretty wasted already last night._

_I didn’t even question the fact that Father showed up._

“Your mother,” Father said. “Closed the wards.” 

He lay there. 

“Did you know?” 

_Ah…_

“You knew, didn’t you?” Dad said. “And you didn’t tell me.” 

“Mum told me not to,” he muttered. 

“And you always do just as your Mummy asks, don’t you,” Dad said. “Such a good boy.” 

He scowled. Dad could be really annoying when he got like this. 

“She was hoping I wouldn’t notice,” Dad said. “She was hoping I would be distracted by Lynx.” 

“Distracted?” 

_I don’t understand._

_Mum just wanted to protect you._

_You weren’t fit to travel._

_You’re… in mourning._

“You should have stayed there, Dad,” he said.

Father raised himself on one elbow. There was an unexpected clarity to his gaze. “No-one will stop me from taking my revenge.”

“Revenge?” He could hear the fear in his own voice. 

“Revenge upon Antonin Dolohov for slaying my husband, Remus John Lupin. And the beast, Fenrir Greyback, will face long-overdue justice for his crime.” 

_Fuck._

He hadn’t even thought too much about why Mum would want to close the wards. He had been far too busy thinking about how to avoid getting caught in the lie about Potter. He had just been relieved to get out of there, away from Father’s freak out, away from Mum’s overbearing supervision, away from facing the fact that Sir was gone. 

_She knew this would happen._

_She knew he would want revenge._

“She very nearly succeeded in closing them,” Father said. “She very nearly had me trapped in there for three months.” 

_I suppose she thought three months would be enough._

_To take the edge off._

“Snithwithington informed me,” Father said. “She made them swear they wouldn’t tell me.” He scoffed. “As if the Elves’ loyalty is to _her_.” 

His head was pounding, he felt sick, and a horrible feeling of dread was growing within him. 

_I don’t want Father to duel Dolohov._

_What if he doesn’t win?_

_What if he…gets hurt?_

That was as far as his mind would think before he shut that line of thinking down firmly. 

_He’ll be fine._

_Everything will be fine._

“I saw the killing blow,” Father said. “Right in front of my eyes. Dolohov uses that spell of his own invention. You know the one.” 

Father’s voice was strangely calm, cold and detached. It was the voice he used when he was out and about in the wizarding world, his public voice. 

“A bolt of violet which snakes through the air. Ostentatious. But its effects are—”

He knew the spell Father was talking about. He had seen Dolohov use it on several occasions. 

“It causes rupture of the internal organs,” Father said. 

He wished Father wouldn’t look at him while he was saying this.

_I don’t want to think about it._

“Tiny tears appear in the lungs,” Father continued. “Which slowly start to fill with blood.” 

_No._

“It becomes more and more difficult to breathe,” Father said. “As the victim slowly drowns in his own blood. It can take up to half an hour, depending on various factors. I saw Dolohov shoot the spell at John. I saw it hit John. I saw John try to carry on, his movements becoming slower and slower. And I could do nothing. I was duelling defensively at the time, backed into a corner. You know,” he said. “John once told me his worst fear.” 

He didn’t want to listen to this. He wished Father would stop talking. But instead he said “He did?” 

“His worst fear was that he and I would be forced to face each other on the battlefield one day,” Father said. “I never told him mine. I was afraid that if I said it, it would come true.” Father stared into the distance. “And it did, Draco.” 

His nose was blocked. He found a handkerchief and blew it. He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his t-shirt. 

“I saw him slip away,” Father said. “I knew he wouldn’t make it far. I created a diversion and, while my opponents were distracted, followed. He was in a storage cupboard filled with cleaning supplies, slumped against the wall. When he saw me, he reached up his arms. I spelled the door shut with the strongest locking charms I could think of. Then I held him in my arms.” 

Father lay down again, resting his head against the arm rest, curling his arms under his chin. “I don’t know how long it took. I didn’t want him to suffer, but—” Father’s face was wet with tears. “To hold off the final moment—I would have made that moment last forever. Doesn’t that make me a terrible person?” Father wiped his face. 

“His breathing was laboured. He couldn’t catch his breath. He started coughing blood. Every time he coughed, he winced with the pain. It was so painful. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t bring myself to hasten his end. I could have given him a better death. I couldn’t do it, Draco. While he could still speak, he said, ‘We never had the life we wished for. But I have no regrets. I have loved my sons, and my lady, and the House of Black. And I have loved you, Lucius. That is worth dying for.’”


	63. Private Confession

**Harry**

He sat there, looking at the carrier bag sitting on the chair next to him. He reached out, pushed the sides of the bag down and looked at what was inside. It was like a bag or folder made out of leather and bound with straps to keep it together. He pulled it out.   
****

One side of the folder was ornately painted to look like the cover of a book. There was a guided frame twined around with white, purple, pink and red flowers. In the frame were flowing letters which read:

_The Romance of Pet and Nara_

He pulled the folder toward him. 

 _It’s_ heavy. 

It must have weighed a good ten pounds. He unbuckled the straps on the side. The front flap, where the painting was, lifted up to reveal a deep pocket.

_What is it?_

He pulled it out. It was parchment. Many, many pieces of parchment, carefully stacked and bound securely with black satin ribbon. The top parchment carried a date at the top and the phrase, _Dear Pet_ , followed by a thick block of close, elaborate, joined-up writing.

_Letters._

He thumbed the corner of the stack, which gave a little, revealing the upper left hand corner of the parchments below. 

_Dear Pet._

_Dear Nara._

They were letters. Hundreds of letters. 

_I don’t care._

_I should set fire to this thing._

He stared at it, willing it to burst into flames.

He felt an intense surge of anger and shoved the package of letters back into the leather folder and fastened the buckles again, pushing the carrier bag roughly back onto the chair. He stood up and marched out of the restaurant, pausing only to take the change off the table. He left the carrier bag sitting on the chair. 

He knew what he needed to do. He stood up. It was a small town. He had hours of daylight to go. He would knock on every door in the city if he needed to. 

_I’m going to find Draco Malfoy._

_And I’m going to make him pay for what he did._

*

“Malfoy!” He shouted. “I’m going to kill you.” 

Draco Malfoy poked his head out of an upper floor window, then ducked back inside to avoid the blasting spell he sent at the window. “Potter!” Malfoy called. “Do you have any idea how old this house is? Stop that!” Then he poked his head out of the window again. 

“You’re going to pay, Malfoy,” he growled. “I’m going to curse you into the next century.” 

“Ooh, why not the next millennium,” Malfoy called. “It’s 1998 after all. Not long to go.” 

“Shut your fat mouth.”

“What do you want, Potter?” Malfoy called down. 

“You really fucked things up,” he shouted furiously. “You really did, Malfoy. Now everyone thinks that—that—”

“Potter, they don’t really _believe_ it,” Malfoy said. “Are you joking? Who would believe that?” 

He could feel himself blushing. If he wasn’t so angry, there was no way he would even be discussing this with anyone. “Ron said they do believe it,” he protested. “Some people do.”

“Potter, some people believe in the Crumple-Horned _Snorkack_ ,” Malfoy replied, hanging a little further out the window now. “But there aren’t many of them and most people don’t take them too seriously.” 

He shook his head. Arguing with Malfoy was incredibly frustrating. He seemed to be able to slither his way out of any accusation. 

“Do you want to come inside?” Malfoy asked.

He scowled. “No! What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“Clearly, everything,” Malfoy replied, still looking down at him. His silver hair was hanging down in curtains around his face. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll come inside.” 

_That may be the only way I get a good shot at you._

_To cause the pain required for your—punishment._

“Alright,” Malfoy called, disappearing from the window. “But don’t try to set me on fire this time.”

The door opened and Malfoy stood there in the cool, dark shade of the house. His eyes travelled up Malfoy’s body. He couldn’t help it. “What are you _wearing_?” He spluttered. 

Malfoy cocked one eyebrow. “They’re called _shorts_ , Potter.” Malfoy turned and walked away with a languid, fluid motion. 

The shorts were _short._

 _Really_ short. 

And Malfoy’s legs were _long._

 _Really_ long.

“Malfoy, if you want to dress like a Muggle, you should do your research. Those are _girls_ ’ shorts. _No_ bloke would _ever_ wear those.” 

Malfoy leaned back against a table, stared at him and crossed his arms across his chest. He was still wearing that skimpy blue top which left his arms and shoulders bare, and a necklace around his neck. There was something steely in his look. 

“ _This_ one does,” he said acidly, leaning back on the table a little as if to say, 

_Go ahead._

_Take a good look._

“Why did you do it?”

Malfoy stared back at him, his face frozen. Then his lip curled, ever so slightly, a look of distaste. “What, do you think I’m a glutton for punishment? That I _wanted_ to be a laughingstock?” 

“Obviously you don’t mind, look at how you dress.” 

Malfoy looked as he’d been slapped. 

_There._

Malfoy took a seat on the table, crossed one leg over the other and linked his fingers over one knee. “Do you want to play this game, Potter?” He leaned forward. “I don’t think you do.” 

“It’s not a _game_ , Malfoy,” he snarled. “It’s my _life._ ” 

“ _This conversation_ ,” Malfoy said. “Can go two ways, Potter. We can trade insults and believe you me, you’ve seen _nothing yet_ from _this_ bitch. _Or_ you can acknowledge the fact that I’m a _human being_ and make some attempt at empathy. Your choice.” 

“Empathy?” He said, looking into Malfoy’s cold silver eyes. “Do you have _any_ idea how I feel?”

Malfoy blinked several times. He was starting to blush deep pink. “I didn’t spread that rumour, Potter,” he said. His voice was barely above a whisper, and barely controlled. “Trust me, _I_ didn’t want anyone to know.” 

He clenched his jaw. 

_That’s not good enough._

_Let’s not forget_ I’m _the one getting buggered in this scenario._

“ _How. Did. This._ Happen _. Malfoy_ ,” he ground out. 

Malfoy sat very still. “Why do you want to know that?” 

He was about to send Malfoy’s girl’s clothes up in flames. “Because you’ve destroyed my life,” he said. “And I think I’m owed an explanation.” 

“Oh my Hecate, call the Academy,” Malfoy groaned. “I’ve got your top nom for Most Dramatic Lead.” Malfoy got down from the table and pulled out a chair. “Do you need some water?” 

“No,” he said, his teeth clenched, and sat down in the chair.

Malfoy was reaching up to get a glass out of a cupboard. His blue top was too small and it was riding up so the pale skin of his back was visible. Two grooves ran up either side of his spine. 

_Don’t look._

He looked down at the table. 

The wooden chair legs scraped against the stone floor as Malfoy sat down. Malfoy drank from his glass of water. 

He raised his eyebrows, waiting. 

Finally Malfoy put his glass down. 

“I’m waiting,” he said. 

Mafloy drew his knees up and rested his chin on one of them. “I couldn’t sleep one night. I went to visit Moaning Myrtle.” 

He frowned. “She _said_ you used to go and talk to her a lot.” 

“You interviewed Myrtle about my habits,” Malfoy said, deadpan.

“You were trying to kill Dumbledore at the time,” he said. “I was investigating you.” 

“Oh yeah,” Malfoy said, staring at the table. “I remember. You nearly killed me.” 

“I did not,” he said indignantly. 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “Yes, you did,” he said. “And I have the scar to prove that you’re not the Gryffindor golden boy everyone likes to _pretend_ you are.” Malfoy hesitated. “And that’s what I was—showing Myrtle.”

“Go on,” he said, gesturing. “Where is it, then?” 

Malfoy looked at him for a moment, then closed his eyes as if concentrating. 

“So what?” He said. “I can see your Dark Mark.” 

The Dark Mark had appeared on the pale underside of Malfoy’s forearm. 

“Anything else?” Malfoy said, his eyes narrowed. 

Then he saw it. The top Malfoy was wearing was actually sort of low cut, presumably because on a girl it was meant to show off cleavage. Now he could see a mass of straight, fine white lines on Malfoy’s skin above the neckline of the top. 

“Do you want to see the whole thing?” Malfoy asked, a bitter edge in his voice, one finger hovering over the neckline of the top.

“ _No_ ,” he said. “Absolutely _not_. What does this have to do with anything?”

“What do you mean?” Malfoy said uncomfortably.

He stood up. He was sick of Malfoy’s roundabout answers. “ _Why_ ,” he said loudly, “did you tell Moaning Myrtle you wanted to _bugger me in the Quidditch showers_?” 

Malfoy’s eyes were fixed on the table. Malfoy was blushing a deep crimson. “What do you want me to say, Potter?” Malfoy said. Malfoy’s voice was sort of…husky. 

_Er—_

The atmosphere in the kitchen was suddenly so thick he could have cut it with a knife.

_I take it back._

_Forget I asked._

Malfoy raised his eyes and looked at him. 

 _He actually_ meant _it._

“It was a private confession,” Malfoy said. Malfoy’s voice sounded like honey being poured over gravel. Malfoy was still looking straight at him with his almond-shaped silver eyes and he couldn’t seem to look away. 

 _Oh my god, he actually_ wants _to—_

“I didn’t mean for anyone else to hear it.” 

He stood up quickly so his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He walked away from Malfoy. The kitchen was connected to a sitting room with two sofas in it, a small bookshelf with a few books on it, all written in Croatian, and a small window that looked onto the street. 

_I really wish I hadn’t asked._

“I pissed off Myrtle,” Malfoy called, standing up himself and walking through into the sitting room. Malfoy sat down on one of the sofas. “She told me she ogled your bits in the Prefect’s Bathroom and I told her that was disgusting.” 

He glanced at Malfoy. “She’s basically the creepiest ghost ever. Why did you talk to her, anyway?” 

“No-one else would talk to me,” Malfoy muttered from the sofa, his long legs folded beneath him. “Anyway, Peeves overheard the whole thing. If I hadn’t pissed her off, she might have kept Peeves quiet. But he had it in for me, so I don’t know if anything could have kept him quiet. He wanted to do his part against the Servants. And I think he was a little annoyed with you for abandoning Hogwarts.”

He looked out the window. It gave on to a small alleyway. Nothing much was going on there. Just some lines of laundry drying in the sun. 

“I really am sorry, Potter,” Malfoy said. “Although I just want to add that there is nothing degrading about being the receiving partner in anal sex.” 

_Oh god_

_He did not just say that_

Malfoy looked at him and smiled wickedly.

_Oh god_

_He’s going to say something else—_

He clapped his hands over his ears and hummed loudly while Malfoy continued talking. When he finished talking, Malfoy burst into gales of laughter and had to hide his face in the sofa. 

“Oh Hecate, Potter,” Malfoy said, sweeping his hair back from his face. “You’re so easy to shock.” 

_Oh, really._

“So what you’re trying to say,” he said. “Is that you used to fancy me?” 

Malfoy froze. 

“And do you _still_ fancy me or is it just the _occasional_ buggering fantasy now?” 

Malfoy was staring at him with huge, wide silver eyes, his mouth slightly parted. 

He burst out laughing. “Now who’s shocked?” He cackled, and fell onto the sofa in a heap of laughter. 

“You pig!” Malfoy shouted, kicking the sofa. “You utter pig!” 

It was strange how much fun he could have with Malfoy at random moments that came out of nowhere. 

“Now who’s shocked,” he laughed again as Malfoy tipped the sofa over and landed him on the floor. 

It was really strange. 


	64. What You're Trying To Say

**Draco**

“Darling,” Father called. “I think I see your boyfriend.” 

_What?_

He was out of his bedroom before Dad finished his sentence. “Get away from the window!” He hissed, looking out the window where Father was looking. 

_Oh Hecate._

_It’s him._

His stomach did a strange squiggle. 

He pushed Father away. “Do you want to _totally_ embarrass me?” 

Father chuckled. “Alright, alright,” he said, “I’ll be in my bedroom.” 

_Shit._

He looked down at himself. 

_I’m wearing this, too._

He had spent the morning on the settee drinking a foul potion Father took for hangovers. It had actually worked, to be fair. Then he had gone shopping and bought these shorts. They were black denim, with frayed edges, and they were _very_ short. With the _You’re Gorgeous_ tank and tattoo choker, he had to admit he felt… 

 _Sexy._  

Father had taken one look at him. _Are you going to paint your face, too?_

 _Maybe_ , he had shot back, and stuck out his tongue. 

_I should change._

_I can’t let Potter see me like this._

_I can’t let_ anyone _see me like his._

But as he stood there, debating, Potter’s voice carried up to him. “Malfoy! I’m going to kill you.” 

_He sounds angry._

_No prizes for guessing why._

He made his decision. 

_The shorts stay on._

_The shorts and I are now a team._

He opened the window. 

_Argh!_

Masonry exploded as Potter sent a blasting curse at the window. 

“Potter!” he shouted indignantly. He leaned out the window. “Do you have any idea how old this house is? Stop that!” He actually couldn’t help smiling when he saw Potter, even though Potter wanted him dead.

_Oh, Potter._

“You’re going to pay, Malfoy,” Potter scowled up at him. “I’m going to curse you into the next century.” 

_I think he found out._

That dead, dazed look Potter had had after the hospital, and actually the next morning as well, was gone. He actually looked semi-rational today. Semi because Potter also looked utterly murderous.

“Ooh, why not the next millennium,” he said playfully. “It’s 1998 after all. Not long to go.” 

“Shut your fat mouth.”

_Make me, why don’t you?_

“What do you want, Potter? An apology? I’m sorry. There. Are you happy?” 

“You really _fucked_ _things_ _up_ ,” Potter shouted furiously. “You really did, Malfoy.”

_I did?_

_I think you’ll find it was that poltergeist._

_He’s the one you should be taking to task._

“Now everyone thinks that—that—”

“Potter, they don’t really _believe_ it,” he said. “Are you joking? Who would believe that?” 

_Really._

“Ron said they _do_ believe it,” Potter replied. “Some people do.”

He just couldn’t feel angry at Potter when he looked so adorably confused. “Potter,” he said kindly, “Some people believe in the Crumple-Horned _Snorkack_. But there aren’t many of them and most people don’t take them too seriously.” 

Potter just stared at him glumly.

“Do you want to come inside?” he asked.

Potter scowled. “No! What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“Clearly, everything,” he said. He just felt incredibly happy to see Potter again, and not even the most embarrassing experience of his life could put him in a bad mood right now.

“Alright,” Potter said. “I’ll come inside.” 

“Alright,” he said. “But don’t try to set me on fire this time.”

He tripped down the stairs and opened the front door. 

Potter’s jaw visibly dropped. _“_ What are you _wearing_?” 

He couldn’t repress the smirk. 

 _Let the shorts begin their career._  

“They’re called _shorts_ , Potter.” He turned and walked into the kitchen. 

“Malfoy,” Potter said, following him. “If you want to dress like a Muggle, you should do your research. Those are _girls_ ’ shorts. _No_ bloke would _ever_ wear those.” 

He perched on the kitchen table and gave Potter a long, hard look. “ _This_ one does,” he said coldly. 

“Why did you do it?” Potter asked.

 _Why did_ I ‘ _do it’?_

_Do what?_

_Broadcast my most private thoughts to the entire school?_

“What,” he said incredulously to Potter. “Do you think I’m a glutton for punishment? That I _wanted_ to be a laughingstock?” 

“Obviously you don’t mind,” Potter snapped. “Look at how you dress.” 

_Potter one, Malfoy nil._

He settled himself on the kitchen table. “Do you want to play this game, Potter?” He stared at Potter. “I don’t think you do.” 

“It’s not a _game_ , Malfoy,” Potter returned. “It’s my _life._ ” 

_Why did he come here?_

_What does he want?_

Potter hadn’t immediately physically attacked him, which was sort of what he was expecting. 

 _What does he want me to_ say _?_

“ _This conversation_ ,” he said firmly to Potter. “Can go two ways, Potter. We can trade insults and believe you me, you’ve seen _nothing yet_ from _this_ bitch. _Or_ you can acknowledge the fact that I’m a _human being_ and make some attempt at empathy. Your choice.” 

_You know, empathy._

_That thing where you recognise that other people have feelings, too._

_Something which you seem to be incapable of doing._

_Or we can just end it here._

_You can throw a punch or try to curse me or whatever._

_And you can go on your merry way._

_See you never again._

“Empathy?” Potter said, sounding totally disbelieving. “Do you have _any_ idea how I feel?”

_Oh my Hecate._

_He really_ is _the most self-centred person in the universe._

I _was the one who was actually_ there. 

I _was the one who had that song sung at me in the hallways for almost a whole school year._

Potter was staring at him. 

_What did he think when he heard?_

The one thing he had regretted most ever since this happened was that he hadn’t euphemised more when he told Myrtle. If he had only toned it down. If he had just said, _I fancy Potter._

Instead of literally _describing_ the most explicit sexual fantasy of his life. 

Well, at that time.

He’d had others, since then. 

_Potter knows I fantasised about fucking him in the Quidditch showers._

He could feel himself blushing. “I didn’t spread that rumour, Potter,” he whispered. He felt very self conscious. “Trust me, _I_ didn’t want anyone to know.” 

“ _How. Did. This._ Happen _. Malfoy_ ,” Potter growled.

_What?_

_What do you mean?_

_Well, Potter, here’s the thing._

_When you’re attracted to someone, you start to think about them._

_You think about them in all kinds of situations._

_And sometimes those situations become… sexual._

All he said was, “Why do you want to know that?”

Potter said angrily, “Because you’ve destroyed my life, and I think I’m owed an explanation.”

“Oh my Hecate, call the Academy,” he groaned. “I’ve got your top nom for Most Dramatic Lead.” He stood up and pulled out a chair for Potter. Maybe he would be calmer if he sat down. Less chance of sending the kitchen table up in smoke. “Do you need some water?” 

“No,” Potter barked, but he sat down. 

He fetched a glass of water and sat down at the table to drink it. 

What had they told Potter? Potter was angry, and if Potter was angry, he was probably embarrassed. 

_Because being fucked by a man is frankly embarrassing, right?_

_You think it's embarrassing, don't you?_

_If the fantasy was you fucking me, what would you think about that?_

_What would you think about that, Potter?_

Potter was embarrassed. 

_Good._

_That’s good._

People who were ashamed did not get angry and demand explanations. 

They kept their mouths shut, and hid. 

“I’m waiting,” Potter said ungraciously.

He felt depressed suddenly. He was such an idiot to have felt happy to see Potter. 

_Potter and I are not friends._

_He doesn’t like me._

_He only came back to confront me._

_And after this—if I make it out with all my limbs intact—_

_He’ll never want to see my face again._

_Not that he ever_ did _want to see my face._

“I couldn’t sleep one night,” he said. “I went to visit Moaning Myrtle.”

Potter frowned. “She _said_ you used to go and talk to her a lot.” 

“You interviewed Myrtle about me?” he quirked his eyebrow.

“You were trying to kill Dumbledore at the time,” Potter said bluntly. “I was investigating you.” 

“Oh yeah,” he said, not looking at Potter. “I remember. You nearly killed me.” 

“I did not,” Potter said indignantly. 

_Yeah, that’s right._

_Don’t let anything tarnish that perfect image you have of yourself._

_Half-killing a Death Eater doesn’t matter, does it?_

_It’s just a Death Eater after all…_

“Yes, you did,” he replied. “And I have the scar to prove that you’re not the Gryffindor golden boy everyone likes to _pretend_ you are,” he said, though Potter wouldn’t listen. He took a deep breath. This was so embarrassing to admit. “And that’s what I was—showing Myrtle.”

“Go on,” Potter said, gesturing at him. “Where is it, then?” 

He felt goosebumps rise on his skin. 

_You want to see my scar?_

_You want to see the scar you gave me?_

He closed his eyes and allowed the glamour to dissipate. He didn’t even need to touch his wand to do it. Didn’t need a spell.

He opened his eyes. He actually felt naked now. 

“So what?” Potter said. “I can see your Dark Mark.” 

“Anything else?” 

Potter’s eyes found it. The lines that covered his chest up to his neck. 

“Do you want to see the whole thing?” he asked. He was about to pull the top of the tank top down to show Potter just how much damage he had done.

_How come it’s always me that does this?_

_How come I’m always exposing myself?_

_And never the other way around?_

“ _No_ ,” Potter said. “Absolutely _not_.” 

He looked absolutely disgusted, which was really comforting and reassuring. 

_I hate myself._

“What does this have to do with anything?” Potter said roughly. “What’s the connection?” 

“What do you mean?” He said, crossing his arms across his chest to try to lessen the feeling of vulnerability. 

_What more do you want?_

_You know my deepest desire._

_You’ve seen my scars._

_You seduced me, then rejected me._

_How much more of me are you going to take?_

Potter stood up. “ _Why_ ,” Potter said enunciating each word, “did you tell Moaning Myrtle you wanted to _bugger me in the Quidditch showers_?” 

_Oh Hecate._

He felt shivers all over his body. 

_Is this the worst moment of my life?_

He stared at the table, frozen and unable to move. He could tell he was blushing deeply. “What do you want me to say, Potter?” He said, quietly. His voice was doing that low, breathy thing again. 

_Wait._

A thought had just occurred to him. 

_Potter doesn’t realise I was being genuine._

He raised his eyes and looked at Potter. Butterflies fluttered wildly in his stomach. Potter was staring at him like he’d never seen him before. 

_He thought I said that just to humiliate him._

_He thought I said it on purpose to make him look weak._

_He doesn’t realise it was really… my fantasy._

“It was a private confession,” he said breathily.

_And in the fantasy, you wanted it._

He felt like he was going to be swallowed up by the deep emerald green of Potter’s eyes. He felt warm all over, like he had when Potter kissed him. 

_You begged for it._

“I didn’t mean for anyone else to hear it.” 

Potter stood up abruptly, the sound of his chair scraping against the floor horribly loud, and left the room. 

_Right._

He stood up, feeling shaky. “I pissed off Myrtle,” He called to Potter, following him into the sitting room and curling up on the settee. “She told me she ogled your bits in the Prefect’s Bathroom and I told her that was disgusting.” 

Potter glanced at him. “She’s basically the creepiest ghost ever. Why did you talk to her, anyway?” 

“No-one else would talk to me,” he pointed out. “Anyway, Peeves overheard the whole thing. If I hadn’t pissed her off, she might have kept Peeves quiet. But he had it in for me, so I don’t know if anything could have kept him quiet. He wanted to do his part against the Servants. And I think he was a little annoyed with you for abandoning Hogwarts.”

Potter was staring out the window. 

“I really am sorry, Potter,” he said, because he was.

If he was totally honest with himself, when the shit had hit the fan, he had been grateful for one thing and one thing only in the entire debacle: that it was Potter getting rogered, and not him. 

_I’m ashamed to admit it._

_I don’t think that._

_And I’m not interested in humiliating Potter any more._

_That’s not who I am any more._

But he knew that in other people’s eyes, it made him look a little _less_ pathetic, and Potter a little _more_ , and at that time, it had been enough to save the smallest part of his ego—for a little while.

Something was telling him he was going to feel a lot worse about these thoughts once Potter found out _everything_. 

Suffice to say, his ego had been suitably crucified. 

Once Potter found out…

_Stop it._

_These might be the last moments I ever have with Potter._

_Let me just enjoy this._

_Let me just… flirt with him one last time._

“Although,” he said, because he did need to clarify this right now. “I just want to add that,” he said loudly, waiting for Potter to turn toward him so he could make sure that he was listening. 

Potter turned his head. 

“There is _nothing_ degrading about being the receiving partner in anal sex,” he said loudly, unable to suppress an evil grin because he knew how uncomfortable Potter was with this topic. 

The funny thing was, even though Potter had had girlfriends, he had the feeling Potter was not very experienced, sexually. 

Maybe even as inexperienced as _he_ was.

He opened his mouth to keep talking and Potter immediately clapped his hands over his ears and hummed loudly. 

He grinned even wider, and he felt his heart flutter as he said, only because he knew Potter couldn’t hear him, “And if _we_ ever have anal sex, Potter, I will _prove_ that to you.” Then he burst into giggles and collapsed into the cushions of the settee. “Oh Hecate, Potter,” he said, sitting up again. “You’re so easy to shock.” 

“So what you’re trying to say,” Potter said, quite seriously. “Is that you used to fancy me?” 

_What?_

His heart stopped.

“And do you _still_ fancy me,” Potter asked, his face perfectly serious, his eyes wide and innocent, “or is it just the _occasional_ buggering fantasy now?” 

_I’m going to faint._

Then Potter burst out laughing. “Now who’s shocked?” Potter crowed, laughing like a hyena. 

“You beast!” he shouted, leaping up and kicking Potter’s sofa. “You utter beast!” 

_I’m going to kill him._

“Now who’s shocked,” Potter howled, cackling. 

He tipped the sofa over and dumped Potter on the stone floor, still laughing. 

_I’m fucking crazy about you, Harry Potter._

_I would do anything for you._

_Just ask._

_Hecate, Potter._

_All you have to do is ask._


	65. Fill Me In

**Harry**

Malfoy climbed on the overturned sofa, cackling like a madman.   
****

_Does that mean Malfoy fancies me?_

He looked at Malfoy kneeling on the overturned sofa, looking down at him. Malfoy had stopped laughing, as if he was about to say something. Malfoy’s light eyes were searching his face. 

_Why would he?_

_I mean… that doesn’t make any sense._

He looked away from Malfoy’s gaze, got up and Malfoy climbed back off the sofa, picking up a cushion which had fallen on top of him. Without thinking, he helped Malfoy put the cushions back on the sofa, then realised what he was doing. 

 _What_ am _I doing?_

He recognised the feeling. It was the same feeling he’d had that night in the field with Malfoy. 

_Why am I here?_

Malfoy smoothed the cushions of the sofa back into place, then stood there, leaning against the sofa, one bare arm resting against the top of the sofa, one bare leg crooked over the other, his hair brushing his bare shoulders.

_He’s pretty._

The thought came involuntarily. He looked at Malfoy again. Malfoy was still looking back at him. He dropped his gaze and went around the other side of the sofa, so he didn’t need to pass Malfoy. 

“Wait,” Malfoy said, coming out from behind the sofa. Then he paused in the middle of the floor, standing there uncertainly. 

_What?_

He wasn’t hunting Death Eaters any more, Malfoy had repaid his life debt. They weren’t friends. There was no reason for him to be talking to Malfoy. There was no reason for him to be hanging around in Malfoy’s house, laughing with him and falling off sofas. 

_Why did Malfoy come to Gryffindor Tower after the Battle?_

“Just wait a mo’,” Malfoy said. And he turned and went and disappeared up the stairs.

After everything that had happened, he didn’t understand what Malfoy was getting out of it.

_He didn’t seem that bothered about the life debts._

_He didn’t seem that bothered about Azkaban._

_For himself_ or _his parents._

_So… why did he come to me?_

The house was actually very small and plain. Not very Malfoyish at all. It actually reminded him a lot of the house that he and Aunt Petunia stayed in when they used to visit this city.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Malfoy shouted down at him. 

He remembered how Malfoy, tied to the taps in the Gryffindor showers, had begged him not to call the Aurors on him.

_He begged._

_He was practically on his knees._

And now he knew the connotation of the showers as jail cell of choice. 

_Malfoy thought I knew._

He remembered Malfoy in the field. 

_I suppose you know what they’re saying about me at Hogwarts._

Malfoy thought he, Harry, already knew about the rumour—and that he knew Malfoy fancied him. 

_It must have been excruciatingly embarrassing for him._

_No._

_What are you, sympathising with him now?_

It was not “embarrassing”. It just added an extra layer of pitiful to an already pathetic situation. 

_Malfoy is pathetic._

That was one thing which he couldn’t stand about Malfoy. He was full of cowardly meanness and cruelty, but at the same time he was _pathetic._ Weak. Like the time he was injured by Buckbeak and had to be carried off by Hagrid. Like the the time they had been in the Forbidden Forest and seen Quirrell drinking the blood of the dead unicorn and Malfoy had screamed and run away. He cried easily and he didn’t try to hide it when he was scared.

In that way, Malfoy had always been girly, even _before_ he started wearing ridiculous clothes. 

He suddenly thought of what Ron would say if he had seen what happened between him and Malfoy in the field. Or just now, in the kitchen and the living room. He remembered Ron’s stricken face when he had told him what the rumour was. From the expression on Ron’s face, it was as if he had suffered a fate worse than death. As if there could be no greater humiliation. 

 _It_ is _humiliating._

 _It’s absolutely_ horrendous _._

But if Ron had seen how he and Malfoy talked to each other sometimes. If Ron had seen Malfoy wearing those clothes and seen the way Malfoy leaned against the kitchen table and said, 

This _one does._

What would Ron say? What would Ron’s reaction be? He felt hot and uncomfortable just thinking about it. Because if Ron saw him teasing Malfoy in that way that just seemed to happen, sometimes… Ron would be horrified. He could just picture Ron gaping at him, 

_Were you—_

_Were you_ flirting _with Malfoy, Harry?_

_Whatever you were doing, stop it._

_Stop it now and never do it again._

_I think I’m going to be sick._

And if Ron would be horrified by what he was doing, then what _was_ he doing? 

_Ron is right to be horrified._

He thought of Ron’s horrified face and heard his words again. 

_Draco Malfoy bummed you in the Quidditch showers._

He thought of Malfoy’s voice staring at him. 

_What do you want me to say, Potter? It was a private confession._

But what had Malfoy been _confessing_ to? 

He thought Malfoy meant that Malfoy… fancied him. 

_Wait._

He didn’t know a lot about bumming, as Ron called it, but he knew that there were two different kinds. There was the voluntary kind, which was what you did if you were gay. Malfoy might like blokes, but there was no way Malfoy _fancied_ him. 

_Just think about how stupid that sounds._

_Draco Malfoy_ fancy _Harry Potter?_

_You’re not a first year any more._

_If someone is nasty to you, it doesn’t mean they secretly like you._

He could really be stupid sometimes.

_I mean, really stupid._

Because the other kind of bumming was the involuntary kind. And he knew there was another word for that, too. 

_Rape._

“Got it,” Malfoy said cheerfully, coming down the stairs. He was balancing something against his hip—something bulky, and heavy-looking. 

_It’s the carrier bag._

_The one Auntie gave me._

The carrier bag had been wrapped around what was inside—presumably the leather folder—so he hadn’t recognised it instantly. But now he could see it was the same red and white design. “You forgot this,” Malfoy said, holding it out to him with a smile which faded instantly when Malfoy saw his facial expression. “What is it?”

He turned and walked away without another word.

“No, Potter, wait,” Malfoy said. 

He recognised the desperate tone he had heard in Malfoy’s voice that morning after the Battle, when Malfoy had pleaded with him in the Gryffindor showers.

_I can prove it to you._

_Why you should let me stay._

“Wait—” Malfoy said. He sounded like he was about to cry. 

He turned the handle of the door, half-afraid he was going to find it locked and his path blocked. But it opened and he walked out into blinding sunshine. He let the door slam behind him and walked, fast, barely aware of where he was going. 

He’d almost been taken in by Malfoy’s new personality. The sort of snarky-cute thing he’d been doing. It was all an act. 

_Draco Malfoy is a sadistic would-be murderer who cursed a teenage girl and let a bunch of Death Eaters into a school full of children._

_I almost killed him in sixth year._

To be fair, it had been a total accident and he hadn’t meant to inflict any harm on him, no matter how much he disliked him. 

_And if it weren’t for me, his plot to kill Dumbledore might have worked._

He couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to figure it out. Of _course_ Malfoy didn’t really care about avoiding Azkaban or any of the other reasons he’d given why he wanted to help Harry Potter. 

_Maybe Malfoy even fabricated those life debts so that he would have an excuse to get close to me._

It had been very strange when Malfoy had shown up at the Room of Requirement when they had been looking for the diadem. Malfoy hadn’t seemed to do much during the battle and he’d all but disappeared after he’d saved him from the FiendFyre. 

_Did he follow me around, just looking for a chance to get in enough danger that I would save his life?_

He thought of how he had felt when Malfoy looked right at him and said, 

_What do you want me to say, Potter?_

How the hairs had gone up on his arms and the back of his neck at the sound of Malfoy’s voice. 

How he’d frozen perfectly still when Malfoy breathed, 

_It was a private confession._

And now he felt absolutely sickened by the memory.  

_Draco Malfoy is out for revenge._

_He wants revenge for what I did to him in sixth year._

_I was just too stupid to realise how far he would go to get it._

He needed to talk to Ron. Ron hadn’t told him the full story of those rumours. 

* 

“Ron!” He shouted. The house looked abandoned. “Ron!” 

_Have they left?_

He didn’t know where the owlery was here, and even if he did, he wouldn’t have used it. He needed to talk to Ron face to face. 

He managed to get in through the front door, which was barely hanging on its hinges. “Ron!”

“Ro-on,” he heard a girl’s voice echo him. 

_Lavender Brown._

“I heard you, Lavender,” he called. “Where are you two?” 

Ron came down the stairs. “Harry,” he said. He didn’t sound that pleased to see him. 

The moment he saw Ron, he realised he couldn’t ask him what he was planning to ask him. What he had come here to ask him. 

The very thought was curdling his insides. 

_I need to talk to someone._

_But who?_

_Who’s left?_

“Come and have a drink,” he said, trying to make his voice sound light and cheerful. “I saw some outdoor bars that looked rather good in the Old Town.” 

Ron hesitated, then said, “Alright.” He bounded back up the stairs, which sounded like they could give way any second.

He could hear Ron’s voice, muffled, and Lavender’s, replying. After a few moments, Ron came back down and they headed out the door together. 

He kept trying to speak. But every time he tried to, his throat closed up. 

_You told me some people thought it really happened._

_That some people thought I was…going out with Malfoy._

_But… that doesn’t make sense, does it?_

_Who would believe that?_

Anyone who knew him and Malfoy would never believe it, not for a second. 

_Everyone knows I suspected Malfoy, that I cursed him, that I broke up his plan to kill Dumbledore._

_So Malfoy goes and gets revenge and says that…_

He remembered Ron looking at him, the horrified expression on his face. 

_Draco Malfoy bummed you in the Quidditch showers._

_No-one would think that I agreed to that._

He felt sick and awful. 

_Does everyone really think—_

There was no way he could bring this up with Ron. 

_Or anyone._

_Ever._

“You alright?” Ron asked after a moment. 

He shrugged. “Yeah.” 

“I was a bit full-on last night,” Ron said. “Sorry.” 

“S’fine,” he replied. 

“Did you find a, er, hotel alright?” Ron sounded a bit guilty. 

“No,” he said. “I didn’t have any money. I slept in the street.” 

“In the _street_?” Ron repeated. “And—how did you—get _here_ if you didn’t have any money?” 

_Malfoy took care of it._

But now he didn’t want to say that. It sounded weird, like Malfoy had been doing things for him.

And he would have to admit that he and Malfoy had travelled by Muggle transport, and _that_ was weird, too. 

“How did _you_ get here?” He asked Ron. 

_Malfoy said they would take ages to get here._

_But I think they must have got here about the same time we did._

_The morning after._

“Portkey,” Ron said. 

_Portkey?_

Malfoy had said there were no more Portkeys…

“Illegal Portkey,” Ron admitted, with an edge of pride in his voice. 

“And why did you come here?” He asked. “I thought you were on your way to Albania.” 

Ron shrugged. “We are. This was easier.” 

_Okay._

He had the distinct impression Ron was not telling him everything. 

_Just like before._

“What, can you not tell me because I’m not in _Dumbledore’s Army_?” He asked sarcastically. 

Ron cleared his throat. “You can be in Dumbledore’s Army, Harry. I told you last night what you need to do.”

“I don’t want to be in Dumbledore’s Army,” he muttered. “I don’t want to spend any more time around—”

“Ginny?” Ron asked. “Yeah, she’s a bitch, alright. But in a good way. I’m starting to see that now.” 

He scowled. There was something about Ron—he was always like this. One minute he couldn’t stand someone, the next minute he was loyal to the death, and couldn’t remember what it was like before. 

_I guess that he was loyal to me before._

_And now he’s not any more._

“Don’t take it too hard, Harry,” Ron said. “About Ginny and Neville, I mean. You _did_ break up with her.” 

“But she—”

“I _told_ you last summer not to go leading her on,” Ron said. “I did tell you, Harry.” 

_No-one cares about me._

So he hadn’t gone insane. But all the same he felt like he had been thrown on the scrap heap with Lockhart and the Longbottoms. 

_No-one gives a Knut._

“And Harry, I know you really liked her,” Ron was still talking. “But it’s been over a year since you broke up and I really think you need to get over it now. And maybe try to, you know, be happy for her.”

He clenched his fists. “But we weren’t _really_ broken up,” he said. “It was just because of Voldemort. I was trying to keep her safe.” 

Ron made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a scoff. “Like you tried to keep me and Hermione safe? She’s not a little kid, Harry.” 

“I know that,” he snapped.

Ron stared ahead. “Look,” he said. “You can’t half break up with someone. It was either happening or it wasn’t. You expected—now I know you didn’t _say_ it, but you did expect—that she would wait for you. Well, that’s not Ginny by half. She doesn’t _wait_ for anyone. She _moved on_ , Harry. Accept it.” 

He scowled. 

“She’s not your property, Harry,” Ron said. 

“I don’t think that—” he snapped, angry. 

“Actually I think you did a little bit,” Ron said. 

He wanted to shove Ron, but that might end the conversation, and he didn’t want to be alone again right now. “ _You_ used to be controlling of her, too. You wouldn’t let me ask her out—”

“ _As if_ ,” Ron objected. “As if you had to get my permission to ask her out.”

“And you didn’t like the fact she went out with all those blokes—”

“No way,” Ron said. “I would never have done that.” 

_What??_

_He’s just denying all of this?_

Ron stopped, took him by the shoulder and said, “Don’t _ever_ say anything like that in front of anyone else in Dumbledore’s Army.” 

He shook Ron off. “I’m not planning on spending a lot of time with Dumbledore’s Army,” he snapped. 

Ron stared at him. “You’re not?”

“No! Why would I?” 

“Well…” Ron trailed off. “What else are you going to do?”

_Okay._

_This is enough now._

They were approaching the tall stone wall which surrounded the Old Town like a castle or fortification. Dusk was starting to fall and the walls and ramparts were illuminated. 

“Ron, you _need_ to fill me in on Dumbledore’s Army,” he said as they crossed a stone bridge and approached the entrance to the walled city, a small archway cut into a short, round tower. 

Ron laughed. 

“What?” He said, looking at Ron. 

Ron ran a hand over his hair. “It’s about bloody time, Harry, _Merlin_.” 

*

Ron hesitated. “You want to go there?” 

“Er, yeah. It looks alright. Doesn’t it?” 

“Aren’t there any _wizarding_ pubs around here?” Ron said in a slightly lowered voice. 

_Oh._

“Er,” he said. “I—of course, there must be one, let’s keep looking.” 

They continued walking. 

“I thought that’s what you meant,” Ron said. “When you said to come have a drink.” 

_What’s wrong with me?_

“Actually,” Ron said. “We passed one yesterday. Hang on, I think it’s over here—” Ron turned toward a side street and waved him on. “Yeah. It’s down here.” He followed Ron down a twisty stone passage between tightly-packed houses. 

_What if Malfoy’s there?_

He felt sick just thinking about what happened earlier. The idea of seeing Malfoy again made his stomach turn. 

_Actually._

_Malfoy’s probably in a Muggle bar._

Ron pushed open a heavy wooden door studded with metal rivets. Above it hung an old wooden sign written in Croatian and showing a flying dragonish ,snakelike creature. Inside the walls were of sandy stone and tables were rammed close together around a bar. “Outside?” Ron said, pointing to a door through which the sea was visible. 

He nodded and followed Ron onto an extremely narrow strip of terrace, cut into the rock wall of the town, with a precipitous drop into the ocean below. It was crowded. Witches and wizards were sitting out here, sipping drinks and looking out at the ocean. They picked their way to one of the last free tables and sat down. 

Ron leaned back. “Wow,” he said. “This place is pretty nice, isn’t it?” 

The ocean stretched out in front, incredibly blue. Off the coast, waves crashed on the shores of a forested island of craggy white stone. Below, kids were jumping off enormous white boulders into the frothing surf. 

“Go on,” he said to Ron. 

A young witch appeared with a pad of paper and a pen and spoke to them in Croatian. 

“English?” Said Ron. 

She shook her head. 

“Can you see a menu?” Ron muttered, looking around. Then he pointed to the wizard at the table next to them, who had a tall glass of beer. “Two of those,” he said, holding up two fingers.” 

The waitress pointed at the beer. “Pivo?” 

“Yeah,” Ron said with a crooked grin at her. “Pivo.” 

She jotted something on her pad and walked off. 

Ron raised his eyebrows at him. “She was a bit of alright.” 

He frowned. “Who?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “That witch,” he said. “Was fit.” 

“Oh okay,” he said. “I didn’t notice.” 

Ron huffed. “You _really_ need to get over Ginny, Harry. Have you looked around yourself? The women are incredible.” 

“Yeah, alright,” he muttered. 

_I kind of have other things on my mind right now._

“Tell me about Dumbledore’s Army,” he said to Ron as the waitress came back with their beers. 

Ron took a long drink and smacked his lips in satisfaction. 

“It’s like it just came out of nowhere,” he said, impatient for Ron to start explaining. “Everything was fine until the Battle. I mean, everything was fine _during_ the Battle. Everything was normal. Now everything’s… everything’s just _fucked_.”

Ron put his beer down. “When I left you and Hermione,” Ron said. 

_Oh…_

He hadn’t even thought of that. He hadn’t even thought of it for one second. 

_But it makes perfect sense._

He wished he wasn’t here. He didn’t know where he wanted to be, but facing another betrayal from Ron just felt like too much at the moment. 

“I went to Bill and Fleur’s,” Ron continued. “They had already joined, you see.” 

“Bill and _Fleur_ joined Dumbledore’s Army?” He said, confused. “But it’s… I mean, it’s basically for kids. For Hogwarts students.” 

Ron traced a pattern in the condensation on his glass. “Used to be,” he agreed, nodding slowly. “Used to be. But now it’s much bigger than that. It started with the Death Eaters taking over at Hogwarts. Ginny wasn’t going to sit around, doing nothing. She and Neville and Luna started recruiting kids. Pretty soon most of Hogwarts had joined,” he said. “They actually stopped attending lessons in October, holed up in the Room of Requirement and started nightly campaigns against the Death Eaters.” 

“Cool,” he said.

_I mean, I knew half that stuff already._

“Then they started contacting people on the outside,” Ron said. “And that’s when it really started to grow.”

_Okay…_

“Kingsley Shacklebolt sort of became their mentor. He gave them tips, strategy, you know. He didn’t want to see Hogwarts fall under You-Know-Who’s control. Pretty soon they had made big gains within Hogwarts, taking Gryffindor Tower and Ravenclaw and creating a safe passage between there and the Room of Requirement. At some point just before Christmas, Fred and George Weasley joined and basically started bankrolling Dumbledore’s Army and providing weapons and supplies.” 

“ _What_ …” he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It all sounded so organised. So professional. 

“Once Fred and George joined, Bill, Charlie and Percy did too. And then Ginny started recruiting pretty much everyone who left Hogwarts in the past few years, and a lot of them joined. You know Ginny stayed at home during the last term?”

He nodded with trepidation. 

“She decided to leave school to work full time on Dumbledore’s Army. There are over two hundred members now and growing every day.” 

“But…” he said. “Why didn’t we… why didn’t Phineas Nigellus tell us any of this?” 

Ron raised his eyebrows. “We probably shouldn’t have relied on a portrait to tell us what was going on. Not to mention that no owls could find us because of those spells we used all the time when we were camping. They tried to contact us constantly, Harry. Well, at least for the first couple of months…” 

“So all of those people,” he said. “They weren’t _at_ Hogwarts, though. So how could they help take down the Carrows?” 

Ron stared at him. “No, Harry,” he said. “It wasn’t just about the Carrows any more.” 

“So what…what was their aim?” He asked, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. 

“They wanted to kill You-Know-Who,” Ron replied.

_They were planning to slay the Reptile_

_Weasley is—she’s influential._

_They’ve already got a lot of allegiance from young people in the Light._

_Not just in Hogwarts._

Malfoy had told him all of this several days ago.

“They knew you couldn’t kill You-Know-Who on your own,” Ron said. “And they _were_ right about that.” 

He didn’t say anything. 

“I really wish we had—” Ron wiped his face with his hands. He signalled to the waitress for another beer. “I wish we had worked with them, Harry.” 

“I _did_ kill Voldemort,” he said. “Everyone seems to be acting as if I did everything wrong. But I _did_ what I was supposed to do.” 

“Yeah, Harry,” Ron said uncomfortably. “But…”

“But what?”

“But the way it happened…and…” Ron trailed off. 

“What d’you mean?”

“Never mind, Harry,” Ron said quickly. “Like you said, it’s in the past now.” 

“Is this why they shut down the Order of the Phoenix?” He said suddenly. “Hestia and Kingsley both told me that the Order has been shut down. Is Dumbledore’s Army _replacing_ the Order of the Phoenix?” 

“Actually,” Ron said. “The Order was disbanded because since the Battle of Hogwarts, most of the members are dead.” 

_There is no Order of the Phoenix_

He remembered Shacklebolt’s words. 

_Just a body count._

“Half the people left in it are members of my family—Mum, Dad, Bill, Charlie. Hestia and Kingsley are at breaking point.” Ron said. “Then there’s that squib woman, but she’s not really a _member_ , is she? Then Doge and McGonagall are ancient, way too old to really count. That leaves Diggle, Mundungus Fletcher and Hagrid. Not what I’d call an impressive line-up.”  

“Well, good on Ginny for helping out in the fight against Voldemort,” he said. “That’s really admirable. She must be glad it’s all over now, though, apart from rounding up the Death Eaters.”

Ron gave him a strange smile. “All over?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “I mean, Voldemort’s dead. Why else would you need Dumbledore’s Army?” 

Ron laughed. “Er, Harry! Hello.” He reached across the table and waved his hand in Harry’s face. “Don’t you get it?” 

_Apparently not._

_Enlighten me, o wise one._

Ron grinned. “We’re taking over.” 

He stared stupidly. “Taking over what?” 

Ron picked up his glass as if to cheers with him. “Everything.” 


	66. Emotional Overtones

**Draco**

“Darling?” Father sat down on the sofa. “Draco, what’s wrong?”   
****

He shook his head. He was hugging a sofa cushion.

Father stroked his hair. “Look at all this pretty hair,” he said. “Who do you get that from?” He laughed softly. Then, “It sounded like everything was going so well.”

He cracked an eye open and looked at Father. 

“I didn’t hear any words,” Father said. “I just heard the… emotional overtones.”

“Then you know it’s over,” he said, curling up tighter. 

Father continued to stroke his hair, then placed a kiss on it. “You need to get out of this house,” Father said. “Come on. Let’s go and find something to eat. And put some clothes on. You’re going to get yourself killed looking like that.”

Get myself _killed?_

_So, what, it would be my fault?_

He reluctantly got up, and started dragging himself up to his room to put on some other clothes. He didn’t want to get beaten up. 

_Even though I probably deserve it._

The sick feeling was back. He could barely move, he felt so sick. And every time he thought of Potter, it just got worse. And judging by the look on Potter’s face when he’d come back down the stairs, Potter was now feeling it too. 

If he went out for tea with Father he just knew he would want to talk about Dolohov and Greyback. 

_I don’t know if I can do it._

He had brought the Romance of Pet and Nara back upstairs to his bedroom and put it on his bedside table. He crawled onto the bed and lay there, remembering the look on Potter’s face when he had come down the stairs with it. Not that the folio had anything to do with it. 

_People who were ashamed did not get angry and demand explanations._

_They kept their mouths shut, and hid._

“Draco, I expect you to be ready five minutes ago,” Father came into his room. He sighed. “Oh, _Draco_ , get _up_!” Father picked up his ankles and started dragging him off the bed. He kicked and squirmed and ended up on the floor, and then crawled under the bed and pressed himself against the wall. Dad laughed, got down on the floor, caught his ankle again. He clung to the bed slats, which made the bed start to drag along with him. He was picking up dust bunnies along the way. He sneezed and kicked, making Father lose his grip.

The minute Dad stopped, he curled up on himself and lay there silently. Father was panting. “Of course, darling. You stay here. Your boyfriend might come back to make up and you wouldn’t want your old dad here, stopping you from losing your virginity.”

He knew the tone in Father’s voice of old. 

_Bugger off._

“There’s olive oil in the kitchen. That always works in a pinch.” 

_I hate you._

“Or maybe he won’t come back. Who’s his best friend, anyway? Isn’t it that Weasley boy?”

He kicked the bed once, hard. 

Father picked up his bag of shopping off the desk by the window, turned it upside down and shook it all over the floor. Actually, all he could hear and see was the stomping, rustling and the clothes falling softly to the floorboards.

“Maybe they’re more than friends. Did you ever think of that?”

The plastic carrier bag floated to the floor near the bed. 

“Did you ever think your precious Harry Potter might be spreading for that—”

“This isn’t Sirius Black all over again,” he shouted, kicking one leg of the bed as hard as he could. 

There was a brief silence. “Oh well. Maybe you’ll get him on his knees again. Tell me if you do. Dolohov and Greyback will want to hear the gory details.” And then Dad stomped out of the room, pausing only to slam the door as hard as he possibly could, so hard the room shook. He listened to Father tramping down the stairs and slamming the door on his way out of the house. 

_You forgot this._

_What is it?_

_No, Potter, wait—_

Potter’s face had been a horrible grey colour. The moment he’d seen him standing there, he knew. 

Knew Potter’s embarrassment was gone. 

And he was fairly certain he knew what had replaced it. 

Potter had just turned and fled as if he had turned into a Dementor. 

He’d been giddy with happiness when he went up to get the folio. From the kitchen to the living room, everything had reversed. Potter had laughed at his teasing. Potter had teased him right back. Suddenly he’d been back in that field but even more so. 

_So much more so._

He didn’t know how these moments between him and Potter happened. He didn’t know what it was that washed away the hostility from Potter’s eyes and filled them with light, with mischief. He didn’t know what made Potter actually look at him, his eyes lingering, the way Potter had done when he’d stood there against the sofa. He didn’t know what made a tense argument turn into playful joking and then something like flirting. 

_I don’t know_

_But it was incredible._

Potter looking at him with those huge eyes, that innocent expression, and totally deadpan:

_So what you’re trying to say_

_is that you used to fancy me_

_And do you_ still _fancy me_

_Or is it just the occasional buggering fantasy now?_

_I could just scream._

_I never had a chance to see Potter’s sense of humour._

But the worst thing about it—and he was going to feel even worse about it in a minute—was that Potter had said it not to embarrass him. He hadn’t said it intending to be cruel. 

 _Potter was trying to make_ me _feel better._

_To turn it into a joke._

_Something fun._

More than that… it was like Potter was accepting his apology. 

_It’s like he was forgiving me._

But what had he been apologising for? 

Not _that._

Because he didn’t _think_ about _that._ He just didn’t think about it. At one point, some point early in the new year, after a long and weary day with the Reptile and the Servants, his mother had looked at him and said, _I hope this is worth it._ It was the only time his mother had referred, even indirectly, to the subject. He hadn’t brought it up, and she had followed his silence. 

_She knew I wasn’t going to confide in her._

_She trusted Sir to support me._

But he hadn’t spoken to Sir about it. He had never talked to anyone about this. Not even Sir. 

In fact, he had been avoiding thinking about it so much that it wasn’t until he had come back down the stairs. That look on Potter’s face when he’d come back downstairs with the folio… 

For the first time he had fully understood what the Peeves incident and its aftermath would mean for Potter. 

What it would feel like to be on Potter’s end of that logical conclusion.

_I don’t want to think about it._

The Gryffindors hadn’t told Potter. They hadn’t told him a thing. They had just told him what happened with Peeves and then left him to work out the rest for himself. 

_Cowards._

I bet it was Ron Weasley. It had to be, because it would take a close friend to tell Potter what had happened. But Weasley hadn’t told him everything. 

_Coward._

_That’s rich, coming from you._

_You never thought about how it would make Potter feel, did you?_

_Your only concern was saving your own miserable skin._

_And it was your own fault it needed to be saved in the first place._

No, he hadn’t thought about it that much. He hadn’t thought much about Potter’s feelings before Potter died. It would probably be more accurate to say that he never considered Potter’s feelings at all until very recently. Probably since Easter. Since Potter had been brought to the Manor by the Snatchers.

_It sounded like everything was going so well…_

He thought of Potter, the moment he stood up and looked down at him, his eyes hard, an edge of frustration in his voice. _Why did you tell Moaning Myrtle you wanted to bugger me in the Quidditch showers?_

His face had been burning when he’d said, _What do you want me to say, Potter?_ The way his voice had gone breathy, because in that moment he’d been incredibly aware of how attracted he was to Potter right at this moment and how vividly he had always imagined the Quidditch showers. And he’d looked up to find Potter staring at him. 

_What do you want me to say, Potter?_

_Do you want me to say that I want you?_

_That I think about you all the time?_

_That if you wanted to, I would let you fuck me sideways?_

_However you want it, I don’t care._

_Is that what you want me to say?_

When he and Potter had starting horsing around, he felt like Potter’s fire was going to consume him and send him up in a blaze of glory. He’d found himself thinking,

_Where is this going?_

He’d climbed onto the sofa and his and Potter’s eyes had met. Potter had been lying there on the floor, looking up at him, resting on one elbow. And he’d had a sudden intense feeling of deja vu. 

_Get down here._

He’d searched Potter’s face. He’d been overcome by the sudden intense feeling that something hung in the balance. His heart had been pounding. Potter had looked away and gotten up and his heart sank. But Potter helped with the sofa and then he’d stood there, feeling Potter’s eyes on him until he felt as if he were having an out of body experience. Because it was _Potter_. The _real_ Potter, not another Potter from the future. He’d thought to himself, _I’m imagining things. I like him so much that I’ve started reading too much into everything._

And then it seemed his thoughts were confirmed by the next thing Potter did, which was to give him a wide berth and go toward the exit without another word. _Fuck_ he’d thought. _Fuck. Now this is it. Now this is the last time._ And he’d been acutely aware of the fact that there was nothing to tie him to Potter any longer. No life debt. No Death Eater hunt. Nothing. _We aren’t friends. There’s no reason for our paths to ever cross again…_

And then a thought had occurred to him. _There’s no reason for Potter to be here._ He realised this with another strange stomach squiggle. _Why did he come?_ Potter had wanted to know why he’d said what he did. Potter had _demanded_ to know why he’d said it. _Why did he want to know? Was he looking for… confirmation? That I… like him?_

_Well, I’m never going to find out._

_I don’t believe what Father said._

_He would only have done that if he truly cared about you._

Maybe Potter had wanted to forgive him, today, when he’d made that joke which was, yes, sarcastic and teasing but somehow also gentle. Considerate. For that moment and maybe a few after, maybe Potter wanted to forgive him. 

But Potter hadn’t yet realised what needed to be forgiven. 

Potter hadn’t gotten there yet. 

_Some things can’t be forgiven._

_Some people can’t be forgiven._

When Potter had shown up today, he honestly thought he was going to have another involuntary fire or panic attack on his hands. But instead when he’d come face to face with Potter he seemed much better than he had for the past few days. He had been angry, yes, but he hadn’t seemed on the verge of losing control as he had been. 

_What happened?_

He wondered if Potter had reconciled with his aunt. He wondered if Potter had started seeing a Healer. He wondered if Potter had made up with his friends. 

_Clearly that’s a yes to one of those, at least._

_If he spoke to Ron Weasley long enough to get onto this topic._

_He seems to have let go of the idea that he’s mad, anyway._

One thing which he had always found strange—fascinating, even—was Potter’s vulnerability to Dementors. Harry Potter always seemed so strong, invulnerable even. But then the moment a Dementor appeared, he fainted dead away. 

_Yes, I was fascinated by that particular weakness._

He supposed it was because seeing a tangible weakness in Potter used to give him cause for celebration. 

_Yes, it did._

_For most of the last seven years._

Sir had always told him that people who had survived traumatic experiences tended to be more affected by Dementors. And Potter was so badly affected by Dementors he had a fainting fit when one came near him. What was in Potter’s past that brought him so low around Dementors? 

_He was a year old when the Reptile thing happened._

_Who remembers what happened when they were one?_

But then there was his conversation with Potter’s aunt the other day. The story of Potter’s adoption had clearly been very difficult for her to tell. 

_Why did she adopt him?_

_Why did she go through all of that?_

Petunia _had_ said that she and Potter’s mother were estranged, after all. He didn’t understand why she would have gone through all that trouble to adopt someone else’s child.

_What was it like to grow up like that?_

It must have left an impression on the family, the fact that Potter came into it like that. 

_And then he was a wizard in a Muggle house._

He remembered Potter reading those Martin Miggs comics for ages when they were on the way to Heathrow. He’d honestly never seen Potter pick up a book in his life before. And yet he had been engrossed by a silly kid’s comic. 

Wizards usually came into the wizarding world just once if they were Muggle-born. 

_Just once._

But Potter had been born into a wizarding family, then dumped in the Muggle world, and brought into the wizarding world again.

 _What was that like?_  

It was weird. He’d never really heard of anything like it. 

_I need to ask Mum about that._

_Has that ever happened to another wizard?_

_I need to talk to Mum, full stop._

He was still lying on the floor under the bed.

_I guess I’ve been here long enough._

He crawled out from under the bed, dusted himself off and pushed it against the wall. It was only a small single, nothing like his huge comfy bed at home. He picked up his clothes off the floor and started folding them. He’d left the house with no clothes except what he’d put on after the fire in the library, so he really had needed to pick up something to wear. Although of course, he had just bought Muggle stuff. 

_I can’t face Dolohov and Greyback like that._

He would need new robes as well, then. 

_Ugh._

_Please don’t think about those psychopaths right now._

_Please don’t think about any of that right now._

And then there was the Romance of Pet and Nara. He’d been out clothes shopping today when he’d passed the restaurant where he’d met Petunia Evans. A member of staff had come out and accosted him, as if they had been watching from inside, waiting for him to go by. The man had brought him inside and given him the leather folio, wrapped carefully in a plastic carrier bag. At first he didn’t understand, but it only took a glance or two at the contents of the topmost letter to understand what this object was and why it had been given to Potter. And why, he assumed, Potter had rejected it. It was far too precious an item for Petunia to carelessly leave it in a cafe.

No, it had been forgotten on purpose and he knew it was his duty to keep it safe. For his mother’s sake, if nothing else. 

_I’m going to find out what all of this is about._

_I’m going to find out what the connection is between our families._

_Maybe I can help Potter._

_I want to…_

_I want to help him._

_I want him to be happy._

His chest squeezed painfully.

_I want to see him healthy. Stable. Happy._

_At least this is something I can do that might make a difference._

He sat down on the bed, pulled the leather folio toward him, and settled in to read. 


	67. Night Out

**Harry**

He stared stupidly. “Taking over what?” 

Ron picked up his glass as if to cheers with him. “Everything.” 

He burst out laughing so hard he spilled beer on his jeans. “Oh my god, Ron, that’s _funny_ ,” he said. “Good one.” 

Ron gave another strange smile. “Harry,” he said. “We’re serious.” 

_We?_

_Right… we._

He started to drink the beer rather faster than he had been. He had limited experiences with beer, but this stuff was cold and it didn’t taste too strong. He kept drinking. 

“Ginny and Neville can explain it better than me,” Ron said. “But basically the wizarding world _needs_ Dumbledore’s Army. They need a team of strong, dedicated young people to bring the wizarding world back to what it was.” 

He finished the pint—no, it was bigger than a pint, he wasn’t sure how much by—and waved to the waitress for another. 

“I mean,” Ron said. “Did you know that the Ministry is basically out of action at the moment? Like, seriously. There isn’t even a Minister for Magic at the moment.” 

“Well, they always seemed kind of pointless to me,” he admitted. “They never _do_ anything. I mean, Fudge! We’re better off without him.” 

“Okay, yeah, but Harry—” Ron leaned forward. “There has to _be_ a Minister for Magic. There just has to _be_ one—”

“Why, though?” He was genuinely asking. 

“I—er—” Ron huffed in frustration. “’Mione—” Ron half-turned as if he was actually speaking to Hermione before he realised what he was doing, shut up and turned beet red. 

“I _knew_ you missed her,” he said, but his words fell flat. Silence descended. 

“Shite,” Ron muttered. 

“She’ll be back,” he said. “Come on, Ron. You know she’ll be back. She’s just off sulking. She’ll visit her parents and then be back in a month or two.” 

Ron stared glumly into space and took a gulp of his tankard of beer. “I don’t think so, Harry.” 

“Ron, shut up. Don’t be an idiot.” 

“Are you trying to be funny?” Ron said, sounding annoyed. 

_I don’t know, actually._

_To be honest I think I’m just scared she’ll never come back._

“Harry, Hermione and I didn’t have a row, alright?” Ron said in an irritated voice.

“Okay,” he said, raising his hands in defense. “I didn’t say you did.” 

Ron sighed loudly. “She didn’t want to join the D—she didn’t want to join Dumbledore’s Army.” 

_What?_

Ron saw the expression on his face. “She refused! She was—she was completely irrational if I’m being quite honest—”

“She doesn’t want to be in this—this _thing_ with you and Ginny so you _make her leave the wizarding world_?” He was trying to keep his voice under control but it wasn’t easy. He was angry. 

“Oi!” Ron snapped. “Keep your shirt on. We don’t want you setting fire to something.” 

Ron said it with such casual derision that he felt hurt immediately. 

“Shut your gob,” he snapped back at Ron, feeling his anger rise again. 

Ron’s eyes widened in annoyance. “Harry, calm down, for Merlin’s _sake_! And would you just let me tell the story, mate, _come on_.” 

He could feel his lips pursing but he clenched his jaw and said, “Go on, then.” 

“We _tried_ to talk to Hermione,” Ron said. “But she said she was against it and she wouldn’t be a part of it. Then she took me aside and she— yeah. She said our relationship felt wrong and she didn’t want to be with me any more.” 

He shook his head. “But you two are perfect for each other.” 

_This is the sort of thing where you say…_

_Why has the world been turned upside down._

_Who asked me._

_And what can I do about it._

_And if I went back and didn’t die, would anything be different?_

What if he had just let Neville kill Voldemort, like the alternative interpretation of the prophecy? Neville could have chopped off Voldemort’s head with the Sword of Gryffindor. They could have kept the head in a jar and the body chained in a dungeon, forever. Maybe Voldemort would still have been “alive” but what damage would he be able to do as a severed head? 

Then he could have gone on with his normal life. 

_I would never have died._

_I would never have to remember all that stuff that happened to me in Privet Drive._

He could have had that future that he had seen in his dream-nightmare. _Before_ it went bad. The dream that took place nineteen years in the future when they were all grown up, they were all married and they had kids and everything was just _nice._

“I had a dream,” he said. “That you and ’Mione were married.” 

Ron raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh?”

He nodded. “You had two kids. Rose and Hugo.”

Ron frowned. “ _Rose_ and _Hugo_? Those are _random_ names. Where you get that from?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. It was a dream.” 

Ron waved at the waitress and indicated another round. He crossed his arms. “I dunno about ‘Rose’ and ‘Hugo’, Harry. Rum names if you ask me. I would name my kids after the heroic war dead. You know—‘Dobby’ and ‘Griphook’, or something.” He chuckled. “Imagine it. Little Dobby Weasley.” He grinned sappily, then burst into laughter.

_Dobby died for me._

He remembered at the very beginning of his strange few days with Malfoy, how Malfoy had tried to convince him that Dobby the House Elf had belonged to the Potters. 

_Bonkers._

_Just goes to show he’ll say_ anything.

“Harry?” Ron asked. “You alright?” 

He shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Fine.” He started in on his third tankard. It ran cold with perspiration. “Um. What else? Teddy Lupin was there. And he was going out with Bill and Fleur’s daughter.” 

Then there was Malfoy, but he wasn’t about to mention that to Ron.

_Been dreaming of Malfoy, have you, Harry?_

No, he wasn’t going to say anything. 

_Malfoy had a son called Scorpius._

_Scorpius!_

_As if. Malfoy would probably call his son ’Narcissus’ or something like that._

Lucius Malfoy isn’t bald. So why would Malfoy be? Doesn’t that sort of thing run in families?

“Harry,” Ron said quietly. “I need to tell you something. It’s about—Teddy Lupin, actually.”

“About Teddy Lupin?” He said sharply with a jolt of alarm. “What about Teddy Lupin?”

_Whatever can you have to say about a one-month-old baby?_

“A couple of nights ago,” Ron said. “Teddy Lupin was _abducted_.” 

 _I’m_ sorry _?_

He stared. He couldn’t help but remember that mental image he had had, of someone carrying Teddy Lupin away on a flying motorcycle and leaving him on a Muggle doorstep. 

“They Obliviated Andromeda,” Ron said in the same low, serious voice. “But the baby is gone.” 

_Oh my god._

“The baby is…gone?” He breathed. “ _Lupin’s_ baby? _Tonks’s_ baby?”

Ron nodded. “They got a message saying the baby is safe and will be cared for. But, _Merlin_ , Harry, this has been a tough one.” 

“Who would _do_ that? Who would steal a baby?”

“We have no idea,” Ron said. “But—I _can_ tell you this, it’s not classified—Dumbledore’s Army’s next mission, after we deliver justice on the Death Eaters, is to recover Teddy Lupin.” 

He ran his hand through his hair. “Christ,” he muttered. 

“ _Christ_?” Ron said. “Who’s that?”

“Er—” He honestly had no idea. He just knew it was something Auntie used to say a lot. 

“Oh, wait,” Ron said. “I know. He’s one of those madey-uppey Muggle people, like Father Christmas or Elvis Presley.” 

“I have no idea,” he shrugged. 

“Now Harry,” Ron said, leaning forward again. “You’re coming to Dumbledore’s Army, right?” Ron saw his hesitant expression and reached out his hand to clasp his forearm. “I’m serious, Harry. How could you not want to save Teddy Lupin?” 

_I want to save him, but…_

“Harry, _everyone_ is in it,” Ron said. “Unless you’re a Death Eater or a Slytherin or you’re _really_ old.”

“No Slytherins or old people, eh?” He laughed, trying to hold Ron off. 

_I just don’t want to talk about this right now._

“Twenty-five is the age limit for joining,” Ron said. 

“Okay, that’s pretty old.” 

Ron shook his head. “Well, it’s not that bad. I mean, we need to include all my brothers, you know.” 

_We do?_

_Okay…_

“And the Slytherin thing…” Ron said. 

He felt his eyes pop open wide. “There are _Slyth_ —”

“Now just hold on, Harry,” Ron said. “Okay? Hold on.” 

“What kind of group is Ginny running here?” 

“Some Slytherins _defected_ ,” Ron said. “You can _defect_ from your house at Hogwarts and the Sorting Hat will re-sort you.” 

He stared at Ron, incredulous. “Pull the other one.” 

Ron nodded. “It’s true. It really is. Hand on heart,” Ron put his hand on his heart. “It’s just that no-one normally does it. But it’s dead easy. And the Sorting Hat re-sorted all of them into one of the other houses, and Dumbledore’s Army accepted them.” 

“ _Ron_ ,” he said. “They were _Slytherins_. Why would you believe a word they say?” 

Ron took a long drink from his tankard, then wiped his mouth. “Come on, Harry. You don’t believe all that shite about Slytherins being evil. Most of them were just scared kids. Some of them saw the way things were going and didn’t want to stay on _his_ side. A _lot_ of people didn’t support Ginny when she wanted to let the reformed Slytherins in, but she stuck to her wand and a lot of them have turned out to be really great.” 

He looked out to sea, just checking if there were any flying Nifflers going past. 

_Nope._

“How did you know they weren’t all lying? Or _spies_? Come on. Think about how many of those Slytherins are going to be _spies._ ” 

Ron held up one finger. “ _Reformed_ Slytherins,” he said. “And you know what? If Gin and Nev think our comrades are trustworthy, then I stand with them.” 

_Gin and Nev?_

_Eurgh._

_Where’s the sick bucket?_

_And…comrades?_

_Seriously?_

“So,” he said, thinking back. “That’s what McGonagall meant when she said, ‘Slytherin House must choose’ or whatever during the Battle. She was saying the people who hadn’t _left yet_ should choose. Not that everyone was still sitting on the fence.”

“Yeah, exactly. And you know, Harry,” Ron said. “A lot of Slytherins our age really didn’t want to get involved with You-Know-Who. Otherwise they would have flocked to him, or formed a Young Death Eaters club or something. But at the end of the day, there was only one student Death Eater in Hogwarts, and I think you know who _that_ is.”

He sighed. 

_Yeah._

_The chap I just spent far too much time with._

_The one who’s out to ruin me, or my reputation, with all kinds of lies and schemes._

_Draco Malfoy._

_What have they all been saying about me?_

_What have they been saying that Draco Malfoy did to me?_

_Have the Death Eaters been saying it too?_

_Did Tom Riddle hear about this?_

If Ron hadn’t told him—if Ron, his _best friend_ , couldn’t even bring himself to talk about it, it must be _bad._ It must be even worse than what he had imagined. 

_Jesus Christ Harry,_

_Stop thinking about it now._

Dumbledore’s Army had blanked him. Literally, blanked him. No-one had talked to him or asked him how he was or said, _Thank you for dying for us to kill Voldemort, we would really be_ fucked _if you hadn’t come and done that. Thanks, Harry, mate!_

He realised he had just finished another huge mug of beer and clinked the glass back down on the table. 

“That’s four,” said Ron, surveying the empty glasses on the table. 

“Four?” He said. “I thought it was three.” 

“Nah, four,” Ron said. “You just didn’t notice that last one. Have you got money?”

He put a hand in his pocket and fished out the wad of bills Auntie had given him. 

“Put that away,” Ron hissed. “That’s _Muggle_ money. Merlin, Harry, you really don’t have your head screwed on straight these days, do you? He dug in his pocket and came up with a few silver coins. “There,” he said. 

“But…” he trailed off. “Isn’t that British money? I mean, British wizards?” 

Ron shrugged. “It’s silver, Harry, mate.” 

_Okay._

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but the waitress Ron liked came back and took the coins and walked away. Ron watched. 

_Really loyal to Lavender, aren’t you?_

“Come on,” Ron clapped him on the shoulder and got up, slightly unsteady. 

“Don’t fall in the sea,” he warned, keeping one hand against the rocky wall as he picked his way back along the long, narrow ledge packed full of small tables surrounded by witches and wizards. When he got to the doorway back into the interior of the bar, he held on tight to the door, thankful for the solid wood frame. He followed Ron out into the narrow street of pale stone. 

“Right,” said Ron. “Food?” 

He nodded. “Yeah,” 

They wandered off back the way they had come. 

“This way?” Ron pointed to a left-hand turn which led to steps going up. 

“Okay,” he said. 

They climbed the steps and found another narrow street, mostly houses with golden light spilling from the small windows. 

_I remember this._

_I remember this place._

_I remember the sandy stone, the little houses, the winding passages, the castle wall around it, the blue sea._

_I remember Dubrovnik._

_We were happy here._

“Look, this way,” Ron said, pointing to an archway which led to another twisting lane. 

They went under the arch and he saw a tiny lane branching off to the right. “Let’s try there,” he suggested. It was so narrow that they could only walk one person at a time. 

“Hey, look, Harry,” Ron pointed. “A pub.” 

It did seem to be a bar, even thought it was quite inconspicuous. It only had one small window next to the door, and no fancy sign or anything above the door. 

“I think that’s a Muggle pub,” he said, turning to Ron. 

Ron grinned. “I don’t care as long as I can get pissed.”

“I thought you wanted food?”

Ron grinned wider. “I changed my mind.” 

He pushed the door open and walked inside. It was small, and made of the same sandy stone as the wizarding pub and Malfoy’s house. A man stood up behind the bar as they entered. “ _Dobar den_ ,” he said with a smile. 

“ _Dobar den_ ,” he replied pleasantly. 

_Wait a mo’…_

_I remember that! I remember that phrase…_

The barman smiled widely, as if he was pleased by Harry’s greeting, and pulled out a bottle and two small glasses and placed them on the bar. “Please, gentlemen,” he said and filled the two glasses with an amber liquid. “This is a Croatian welcome. _Rakija_. Please.” 

Ron gave him a look and they both went, picked up the glasses. Ron clinked theirs together. “Cheers, Harry, mate,” he said. They both drank. 

_Eurgh._

It burned as it went down, then went warm in his stomach. “ _Hvala_ ,” he replied. 

_I can’t believe I can remember so much Croatian._

_This is so odd._

“What can I get you?” The barman asked. 

“Cuba Libray,” Ron said, gesturing at both of them. 

He frowned. “What is that?” 

Ron glanced at the barman, then muttered, “It’s a _Muggle_ drink. Charlie likes them.” 

He shrugged. “Okay.” 

“We will bring them,” the barman said. “Please.” 

Ron pointed. “I think there’s a beer garden in the back there,” he said. 

The bar was cheerful, with colourful flags everywhere and loud music playing. The stone apparently muffled the sound well because he hadn’t really heard it from outside in the street. Muggle men and women were sitting around, laughing. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. 

They went outside to what turned out to be not a beer garden but a courtyard filled wth tables, similar to the hotel restaurant where he’d talked to Malfoy the morning after they arrived here. It was already dark, but there were fairy lights strung up everywhere and tea lights flickering on the tables. The music was quite loud out here, too. 

“Here?” he pointed to a table. They sat down. 

Ron nodded, his head moving to the music. “This is a bit of alright,” he smiled. “ _Merlin_ , Harry,” Ron looked at him and grinned. “It’s good to be—to be free like this, isn’t it? No more school. We can go out and have a drink. You know, we can do whatever we want.” 

A young man approached them, carrying their drinks. He said ‘thank you’ again in Croatian and when the waiter left, Ron said, “How d’you know that?”

“We used to come here on holiday,” he said. 

Ron lowered his voice. “When you lived with the Muggles?”

He nodded and sipped his drink. 

Ron did too. “Phwoar!” He shook his fingers. “That’s good. Eh? Cheers, mate.” Ron held up his glass. 

“Cheers,” he said. 

_I feel good._

_I actually… feel good._

“Harry, mate,” Ron said, “Down it, alright?” 

“What?”

“You know,” Ron said. “Down it. All in one go. Ready?” Ron held up his glass. “Cheers—”

“Cheers—”

He tipped his head back and drank it down in one go. When he got to the bottom, ice cubes slipped out around his nose and mouth and one got into his t-shirt. He laughed and shook it out. 

He and Ron looked at each other and just laughed. 

_I missed Ron._

_I really did._

“Right,” he said, standing up. “Wizz. And while I’m inside—‘nother round?” 

Ron leaned his head back and nodded. 

He went inside and looked for the toilets. The bar was a sort of L-shape with a long, narrow section at right angles to the bar. He spied a toilet sign at the end of it and skirted past a long bank of high-sided booths. He reached the toilet, went inside and went up to the urinal. One of the toilet stalls was occupied. 

While he stood there, he heard a noise. It came, unmistakeably, from the closed toilet stall. 

_What was that?_

One second passed, then another. 

The noise started again. 

_Oh god._

He finished peeing and got out of there as quickly as he could. 

_There were two people in that stall._

He didn’t need to be a genius to figure out what was going on.

_Is that normal here?_

_Do people just…_ do it _in toilet stalls?_

Then another thought occurred to him. 

_That was a men’s toilets._

_Are you telling me a woman went in there?_

No. No, that wasn’t it. 

_It wasn’t a woman and a man._

He hurried past the booths and back to the bar to place his order. The barman was chatting with the waiter and he waited, standing in front of the bar. He perched on a bar stool and sat there to wait until he could order. There were blue lights running around the walls and ceiling and a silver mirrored ball which threw light all over the room. 

He looked around. Muggles, having a good time. 

_This is normal life._

_This is just normal, bog-standard life._

_Isn’t it marvellous?_

He felt incredibly good. This was such a good idea. He and Ron were having a great time. It was almost like things were normal again, if he just forgot about Auntie and Dumbledore’s Army and Teddy Lupin and Malfoy and—

As his eyes scanned the room, a head of white-blond hair caught his eye. He narrowed his eyes to see through the fug of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. 

_Malfoy._

The mirrored ball threw light on the hair and it glistened silver. He recognised the profile.

_Jesus Christ, it is Malfoy._

Malfoy was talking to someone, very close—no. 

He almost fell off his bar stool. Malfoy was _kissing_ someone. Malfoy was kissing a man. One of Malfoy’s hands was on the man’s shoulder and as he watched, Malfoy tilted his face over to one side, until all he could see was Malfoy’s hair, his chin and neck as he kissed a dark-haired man who had his hand on Malfoy’s upper arm. 

_Don’t—_

_Don’t_ look—

He was still looking. 

“We come to you,” a voice said. 

He turned his head to see the barman, who pointed to the young man who had brought his drinks. “You don’t have to come here to order. We come to you.” 

“Oh,” he said, utterly befuddled. “Right.” 

“Two more Cuba Libre?” The barman asked. 

He nodded stupidly. 

The barman chuckled. “I know. You are British. I lived in Manchester for five years,” he smiled kindly. “Or did you come here to look around? At the men?”

_Oh._

“I—”

“No, no,” the barman said, “that’s your boyfriend, right?”

_Who?_

_You mean—_

_Malfoy?_

“I—” he spluttered.

_Ron._

_He’s talking about Ron._

“Er—he—me—” he blabbered. He didn’t want to be rude, but he could hardly say ‘yes’. 

“Go, go,” the barman said. “We’ll bring your drinks.” 

He got down from the bar stool and walked, feeling a little dazed, back toward the courtyard. In doing so he was walking closer and closer to Malfoy. 

_Don’t look._

_Just keep your eyes down._

But he couldn’t. He looked, and he looked straight into the eyes of Lucius Malfoy. 

_Oh_

_God_

Lucius Malfoy, one hand around the dark-haired man, lifted a cigarette to his lips, dragged on it, looking at him all the while in a knowing way.

_FUCK_

He dropped his gaze and walked as quickly as he could into the courtyard back to where Ron was sitting. He sat down. 

“Harry, are you alright?”

He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Yeah, just fine.” 

“Right,” Ron said. “My turn.” He went to stand up. 

“No!” He almost shouted. 

Ron looked at him in alarm. 

“I, er—” he racked his brain. “We haven’t talked about Quidditch in ages.” 

Ron’s eyes lit up. “Yeah!” He rubbed his hands together and sat back down. 

_Thank god._

“Er, Ron,” he said. “Switch seats with me.” Ron was facing the open door into the bar. 

Ron frowned. “Why?”

“I’m bored of sitting here,” he said. 

Ron looked at him. “You are a mentalist,” he said, but he got up. “Now,” Ron said as soon as he sat down. “Puddlemere United, alright, listen to this—”

Ron’s words were going in one ear and out the other. He kept looking at the door. 

_I’m in a gay bar._

_And Lucius Malfoy is here._

_Pashing with a_ man.

His eyes kept flicking to the doorway. Ron was explaining something, but he couldn’t follow. His eyes found the doorway again and he almost jumped out of his skin. 

Lucius Malfoy was standing there, framed in the doorway, looking at him. Lucius Malfoy looked at Ron, quirked one eyebrow in a very Malfoyish way, and then 

_Jesus Christ—_

_He winked at me?!_

Then Lucius Malfoy took the man by the hand and walked slowly away, the man trailing behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief. 

_They’re gone._

_Oh my god what the hell._

“I _know_ ,” Ron said. “The expression on your face says it all. Isn’t that _shocking_?” 

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Shocking. Wow.” 

_I should have had my wand out in a flash to curse him._

_Why didn’t I curse him when I had the chance?_

_What is wrong with me?_

Of course it hadn’t been Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy was quite a bit taller, and his hair was much longer—almost waist length—and he had a much sterner face, much less pretty than Malfoy’s—

_What are you saying?_

“Another one?” Ron asked. 

“Oh God yes,” he said, burying his head in his arms. 

“You alright, Harry?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I just. You know. Need another of those drinks.”

*

The streets were dark and empty. He and Ron, leaning on each other, dipped and weaved down the streets. 

“No fucking clue where we are,” Ron laughed, then turned away and was sick on the sandy stone street. 

_Eurgh_

He could almost be sick himself. 

Someone had started singing in the bar and they had gone inside. There was a telly set up and the lyrics of the song would appear so you could sing along. Ron didn’t know any of the songs. Muggles were getting up and singing tunelessly into one of those things, like a _Sonorus_ charm but for Muggles, that made your voice louder. Muggles were dancing around, and everyone was laughing and it was possibly the best time ever. He found that he remembered some of the songs, at least the tune, and he ended up singing a song about surviving, which he found quite fitting. 

_At first I was afraid_

_I was petrified_

_I will survive_

He sang it now, in the dark, empty, narrow street lined with tiny stone houses. “I will survive! I’ve got all my life to live… I will survive!”

Ron laughed, apparently quite alright after vomiting. “Come on, now we have to find food. Come on, Harry, mate.” Ron slung an arm around him and they kept going, into the night. 

_Fearless._

_I feel fearless now._

_Just let this last._

_Let it last forever._


	68. Leftovers

**Draco**

_The Romance of Pet and Nara._

_Oh my Hecate._

He had read until the early hours of the morning when he had finally called asleep with the light on while reading one of the last letters. His head was still so full of what he had read that it had coloured his sleep and now that he was awake, he felt as if he was in a daydream and could think of nothing but the story. 

_Hurry up._

His first instinct upon waking was to reach for the next letter and keep reading, but he was bursting for a pee. Now he was standing here, the morning light soft through the small, high window, impatient. 

_I need to find out what happens._

He was done. He quickly washed his hands, then realised he had forgotten to flush—the toilets in the Manor flushed on their own—pulled the handle and hurried out the door—

“Aargh!”

He let out a scream and jumped about a mile high. 

The naked stranger who had been on the point of turning the door to the toilet let out a yell and leapt backward. They eyed each other for one horrified second, and then he dodged past him, ran to his bedroom and grabbed his wand off the bedside table. He dashed back into the corridor and assumed a defensive stance. 

This felt quite ridiculous considering he was only wearing a singlet and Calvins. 

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!” He shouted, and the man toppled to the floor, completely motionless. 

He stood there, totally confused, for half a second before Father’s voice emanated from the master bedroom. “What in Salazar’s name is going on out here?” Father appeared in the doorway, tying his dressing gown. Father looked from the frozen, naked wizard on the floor to Draco, standing there with this wand pointed at the man. 

He’d thought the man was an intruder. Specifically, a wizard coming to assassinate Father and himself. 

“Silly goose,” Father laughed. “What did you do that for?” He went over to the prone wizard. 

He watched in growing horror and outrage. “Don’t go near him!” He snapped. “Dad! Stop. Stop!” 

Father gave him a petulant look and crossed his arms. 

“Sir has been dead for _less than a week_!” The words came out as a strangled scream. His entire body was alight with adrenaline. 

Father’s face was as sour as if he had a lemon wedge in his mouth. “Thanks for the reminder.” He walked over to the wizard and, wandlessly, removed the binding jinx, hoisted him to his feet, looked him calmly in the eyes and pushed him toward the bedroom.

He raised his wand again. “If you—”

“He needs clothes,” Father muttered. 

“I don’t care if he has to walk home like that,” he said. “Get him out of here.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do, my boy,” Father snapped, poking his head out of the bedroom door and pointing finger at him. “I’m your father.” 

“So?” He sneered, or tried to. There were tears running down his face. He couldn’t _believe_ it. “You’re a fucking bastard.” His nose was blocked. “What’s taking so long?” He barked. “I’ll Imperius him, Father, I’m not joking.”

“Alright, alright,” Father’s voice came from behind the wizard, who he was pushing out of the bedroom. He was wearing a pair of jeans and his shirt was draped over his shoulder. Father started pushing him down the stairs. 

“He better be gone in less than a minute.” He tried to shout it, but his chest was blocked with sobs. He wiped his eyes and stood there, trembling. 

He heard the front door open. “There, take your shoes. Yes, just carry them. Alright. Go home now.” The door closed again, but Father didn’t come back upstairs. Father was trying to avoid him. 

He made his way down the stairs. Father was sitting on the sofa, filling his pipe, his back turned to him. 

“Sir told me he considered you to be his husband,” he said, walking up behind Father. “That if things had been different you would have gotten married. Is that true?”

“Of course it’s true, Draco,” Father said in a tired voice, starting to puff on the pipe. 

“So?” He said. He couldn’t really speak because of the sobbing. “After thirty years? This is how you—” He was trying to shout and scream, he really was. But it just wasn’t happening. 

“Yes,” Father said. “I was loyal to John for thirty years. I couldn’t be anything else but loyal to him. But now he’s gone, what does it matter?” 

“It does matter!” He couldn’t even look Father in the face. He just stood there, staring at his hunched back on the sofa while pipe smoke curled into the air above him. 

“Nothing matters any more,” Father muttered. 

After reading the Romance of Pet and Nara, this was just too much. 

“I always thought,” he said, breathing noisily through his mouth because his nose was blocked. “That the person I end up with, if it’s a girl or a boy, I wanted to have a relationship like you and Sir had.” He sobbed for minute or two. 

Father sighed and puffed pipe smoke. “But we didn’t get married, did we? John had a choice. His politics, or marriage to me. He chose politics."

“You have desecrated his memory,” he said. “I have nothing left to say to you.” He turned and crawled up the stairs. 

“I always got the leftovers,” Father’s voice floated over to him as he lay on the stairs. “Whatever was leftover from his work with Narcissa, from the time he spent undercover. I got what was left.”

“And what about me? Was I a leftover too?” He turned his face into the crook of his elbow. 

“No,” Father said wearily. 

_Yes I am._

He was sobbing so hard he couldn’t breathe. 

_I’m a leftover too._

 

*

“Just hold still a moment,” Father said, his fingers on his face. “There. That’s better. Fresh as a daisy. No-one will ever know you cried.” Father stood up. “I need a cup of coffee. And something to eat.”

They went out the door and started walking down the lane. “This really is pleasant,” Father remarked. “I can see why your mother loves it.” 

The lane opened out into a courtyard with a couple of cafes with open air seating and sat down. 

Father picked up the menu. “We might take a trip along the coast,” he said. “Some of the ancient cities are really worth seeing. Split. Kotor.” 

“Okay,” he said. “That sounds nice.” 

The waiter came over and he ordered for them, since Father didn’t speak Croatian. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said to Father. 

The coffees arrived and Father took a long sip, as if he was contemplating the answer. Then he said, “We had plans. John and I.” 

He took a sip of his own coffee. He hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep. 

“John was only thirty-eight,” Father said. “I’m forty-four. We are… we were… still young. There was still time.” 

“Time?”

Father drained the coffee cup. “I hoped that if the position of the Blacks improved, John would be able to… stop his work with the Light.” 

He frowned. “But…”

“I know, he said it was for life. I don’t think he believed the House of Black would be strong enough, in our lifetime. But I… hoped.” 

“If the House of Black was in a better position,” he said, “what would Sir do? Blow his cover?” 

“He could stop his undercover work entirely _and_ he could openly declare his allegiance to Narcissa Black. There would be no more need for stealth, intrigues.” Father said wistfully. “Your mother and I would be able to dissolve our marriage. The alliance of Black and Malfoy could be cemented in some other way,” Father said quietly. “And there would be a chance for John and I.”

“What?” He said. Suddenly he was on the verge of tears again. 

Father blinked at him. “Surely you realised our situation was not…ideal.”

_I thought we were a family._

“Not ideal?”

_An unusual family, but…_

_A family._

_I didn’t think there was anything_ wrong _._

“Draco, you’re old enough now to understand…” Father sighed, rubbing his temple. 

“Understand what?” He said. “You hated—us? Hated living with me and Mum and Sir?”

_That was the happiest time of my life. When Sir lived with us full time. When Sir was my tutor._

“Draco, don’t be such a drama queen,” Father muttered, turning the empty coffee cup around on its saucer. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.” 

“You wished it had all been different?” He said. “Then where would I be? If it was just you and Sir?”

“Draco, you’re twisting this all around,” Father said. “This double life…” he sighed. “It wears on me. You want to live, not just survive.” 

“Surviving? You were just surviving?”  

_What did I do wrong?_

_I was never right, was I?_

_I was never what I was supposed to be._

_I knew I was always a disappointment._

_And now Father’s saying it to my face._

The food arrived and he sat there, red-faced and silent, while the waiter put down their food. The atmosphere was decidedly awkward. 

“I thought you were old enough to understand,” Father said in clipped tones. “Clearly not. Forget I said anything.” 

“I can’t forget it. You hate us,” he wiped tears from his face. 

Father closed his eyes. “Draco that is _not_ what I said.”

“Are you and Mum going to get divorced now?” He asked. 

“No,” Father cried. “Where did you get that from?”

“Is Mum coming here too,” he asked. “Is she going to get back together with Pet?”

Father shot a look at him. “ _Pet_?” 

“I read their letters,” he shot back defiantly. 

“It’s none of my business,” Father replied icily. 

He burst into tears. 

“Don’t make _me_ look like the nasty one,” Father said. “I was only being honest. Now I know why I never told you before. I was afraid _this_ would happen.” Father stared at him. “No, my life didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to.”

He cried harder.

“But do you know why I did it, Draco?” Father said. “I did it for _you_. When John came to me and proposed the alliance with Narcissa Black, I agreed on one condition: the heir would fall to the Malfoy line.” 

“You did it for Sir,” he said. “You already said so.” 

“I wanted a child,” Father said. “And yes, I wanted to preserve the future of the House of Malfoy. I wanted to save it from its long decline. I didn’t want to see it fall.” 

“But you never do _anything_ for the House of Malfoy,” he said. “Mum and Sir work nonstop to save the House of Black. But you don’t even care about the House of Malfoy. You never do a thing.” 

“The future of the House of Malfoy?” Father stared at him as if dumbfounded. Then he said, “I’ve done what _I_ need to do. The future of the House of Malfoy? That’s _you_ , darling.” Father stood up, took a few bills from his pocket and placed them on the table. “Calm _down_ now, Draco,” he said. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” He started walking away. “You can apologise to me later.” 

He stared at his breakfast, cold and untouched. He wiped his face. People were looking at him, casting glances of derision as they passed. Father’s last comments smarted so much that the tears did stop flowing, if only in anger. 

Because now that he had read the Romance of Pet and Nara, he knew how Mum felt about it.

_Mum didn’t want to get married._

_Mum didn’t want me._

_Mum didn’t want any of it._

He had lost Sir. 

And now he had lost his family, too _._  

*

_Please let him be out._

He let himself into the house as quietly as he could. 

_Please be out._

“Well, there’s my dragon,” Father said, appearing from the living room. 

_Oh, don’t call me that._

He rolled his eyes. 

Father came toward him, arms outstretched. “I need a cuddle from my dragon.” 

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Da- _ad_.”

Father enfolded him in his arms. “How could I live without you?” He took a step back and looked at him. “Isn’t it time for you to get back to your young man?” 

_You’re throwing me out?_

He crossed his arms. “I don’t think I’m ever going to see him again.” 

Father gasped. “Draco!” 

_Oh, Hecate._

_Get your story straight, Draco._

_Father thinks you’re here with the Light._

_That’s what you told Mum before you left the house, remember?_

_Because she told you not to go chasing Death Eaters with Potter?_

“Er—” he said. “I…” 

“Darling,” Father said. “How long have you been here, hiding from Harry Potter?” 

“Er…” he said. 

“When I arrived,” Father said. “You told me you two had a fight about—”

“Yeah,” he said, blushing. He didn’t want to go back into that now. 

“He came here yesterday,” Father said. “Now it’s your turn. Go over there, eat _humble pie_ and whatever _else_ you need to—”

“Huh?”

Dad smiled at him, a little wistfully. “Just do whatever it takes for him to take you back.” 

_Shit._

He had the distinct sensation of being hoisted by his own petard. 

_So what am I supposed to do now?_

“I saw Harry Potter last night,” Father said archly. 

“What? What are you talking about?” 

“He was at a bar with that Weasley boy.” 

He felt his jaw tighten. “The bar where you found that wizard?” 

Father avoided replying by asking, “Are you sure there’s nothing going on there?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Dad, there’s no way they realised they were in a gay bar. Potter probably thought the rainbow flags were an innovative decorative scheme. Did you _follow_ them there?” He hissed. 

_Oh, shit—_

“Did Potter _see_ you? Oh Hecate Dad, tell me he didn’t see you—”

Father looked shifty. 

“ _He saw you_.” 

_Oh Hecate._

He was going to pass out, he just knew it. 

“Are you really that ashamed of me?” Father said testily. “Are you even going to _introduce_ me to him?” 

He scowled. “You know him.” 

Father rolled his eyes. “No I don’t, Draco,” he huffed. “I didn’t _say_ anything, don’t _worry_. I just threw him a wink or so.” 

_A wink._

“You _winked_ at Harry Potter,” he said, feeling as if he wanted to sink in the ground. 

“What, should I not have done that?” Father said, fake innocently, and fluttered his eyelashes. “What _should_ I have done? Enlighten me.”

“Nothing,” he muttered. His heart was pounding.

_Why didn’t Potter curse Father?_

_Potter_ and _Ron Weasley…_

_Why didn’t they curse him?_

_Why didn’t they call the rest of Dumbledore’s Army?_

“I can’t _believe_ you let yourself be seen by Ron Weasley,” he snapped. “That was a close call. Dumbledore’s Army could have been there in a flash.”

Father looked at him doubtfully. “Are you telling me that _your_ _boyfriend_ would set a bunch of Light wizards on me?” 

“No, of course not,” he said. “But if Ron Weasely saw you, what would he say? He would have to—”

“Put him off the scent,” Father said smoothly. “Which he did. He made sure the Weasley boy didn’t see me. You don’t give him enough credit, Draco. He’s perfectly capable.”

_Eh?_

“What do you mean, he made sure Ron Weasley wouldn’t see you?”

“He had him facing away in the opposite direction so he wouldn’t notice me,” Father said. 

_Oh Hecate._

_I can’t._

Father sighed. “It’s all too complicated. I told you, I’m tired of this. Everyone cloak and dagger all the time.” 

_Yeah._

_Tell me about it._

“I still don’t see how you ended up in the same bar,” he said. “Unless you were following them.”

_Or they were following you._

“It was close to the wizarding district. It was just a coincidence, Draco. This is a small city.” 

“Right,” he muttered. 

“I’ve packed up your things,” Father said with a plasticky sort of grin. And he fetched a bag from the kitchen table and bought it to him.

He looked at it incredulously.

 _Oh, you really want me to leave_ now, _do you?_

_Why, are you going out on the pull again?_

Father saw his face and said. “You have to go and make up with Potter, Draco, and continue what you’re doing with the Light. Your mother and John would never forgive me if I let you stay here sulking when you need to be out there.” 

_You used to hate it when Sir left._

_When he used to leave and go back to his other life._

He looked at Father and saw that he was smiling though his eyes were bright with tears.

“You found love,” Father said. “And that’s worth living for.” 

_Really?_

_Because after hearing about you and Sir, and reading about Pet and Nara last night, I’m feeling a little doubtful about happily ever after._

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I hope so.” 

“You have to hope, don’t you, darling? You have to hope.” 

_Hope, Draco._

_Hope will be the death of you._

“Come here, dragon,” Father said, hugging him tightly once more, then leading him to the door and almost pushing him out. 

“Bye, dad,” he said, feeling too sad to cry. Too lost to protest. 

He walked out into the morning sun. 

_I have absolutely no idea where I’m going._

_Or what I’m doing._

_Fuck._


	69. Everyone Except Me And Malfoy

**Harry**

_Where am I?_

He woke up to find he was lying on the floor between two single beds. Ron was fast asleep in one of the beds and in the other, he realised, was George Weasley. 

George was lying there, staring at him. He raised one finger to his lips and said, “Shhhhhh.”

“Hey George,” he croaked. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” said George. “Don’t worry about that, Harry.” 

He frowned. “Tell who?” 

George smiled widely. His eyes were bloodshot. 

_Has he been lying there awake all night?_

“Ginny,” George whispered. He giggled. “She’d curse you into next week.” 

_He’s acting weird._

He remembered how George had been sitting hunched over the other day when he’d been in the DA’s headquarters, the derelict house. He looked around. This was definitely not the same house he’d been in before. The room was nicely furnished and the sand-coloured stone walls were clean. 

“I thought the DA was leaving for Albania,” he said. 

He thought back to last night, painfully. He had wondered why Ron had been alone in the derelict house with Lavender Brown, and why he was still there if the DA was supposed to have left already. 

_I guess we were talking about more important things._

_And then…_

Then he had been too pissed to think about practical questions. 

_I was so drunk._

_Ron was practically paralytic._

_Lucius Malfoy_

He suddenly remembered what had happened in the bar. Lucius Malfoy.

_Oh… god._

“They don’t have any intelligence. No leads.” George giggled quietly.

_He is not normal._

_I better get out of here._

He could tell from the light that the sun had not been up long. He couldn’t have gotten more than a couple hours’ sleep. “I’m going, George,” he said.

“Shhhh,” George said again. 

He stood up and made his way out of the bedroom and down a flight of stairs. The house was a big change from the derelict place where they’d been squatting. It was a handsome mansion, stately and high-ceilinged, all moulded in the same sandy stone. 

_Moving up in the world, eh?_

At the bottom of the stairs was a circular atrium. Seamus Finnegan was sitting in a hard-backed chair next to the door, fast asleep and snoring slightly. 

_Will I be able to get out?_

_Will there be an alarm?_

He shrugged.

_What does it matter?_

_I’m going out, not sneaking in._

He unlatched the door, turned the knob and walked through. As he suspected, he found himself in the Old Town of Dubrovnik rather than on the less attractive outskirts where the first house had been. The house gave on to a small lane just off a wide boulevard which he recognised as running through the centre of the city. This was where Auntie had found him asleep. 

Even though it was early, there were already people up and about. 

_I think that’s a bakery._

He could smell the fresh bread from across the road. He approached and went inside. The smell was even better inside. He pointed at one of the pastries he’d eaten the other night when he’d eaten with Dumbledore’s Army. 

_I remember what they’re called now._

_Burek._

“One with, er— _sirnica_ ,” he said. 

_Cheese._

“And one with spinach,” he said, because ‘spinach’ seemed to have been disposed of by his brain. 

He found the wad of money from Auntie still in his pocket and handed over a note. The woman behind the cashier looked at him strangely, and gave him a lot of change in return. 

_I guess that was a large note._

He turned and went back outside to eat his breakfast. 

_Mm_

It was flaky pastry, like filo, but buttery, and the cheese was slightly salty. It was still warm. 

_We used to eat this every day._

He used to play football with the boys who lived in the street where the house was. They would go swimming in the sea, jumping off the rocks just like the kids he’d seen from that wizarding pub last night. 

_I never thought I would come back here._

He certainly never thought all of these people he knew from the wizarding world would be here. In his mind, the wizarding world and this city were separate, as they existed in different dimensions and could never cross over. 

 _Why_ are _we here?_

_Why is everyone here all of a sudden?_

Malfoy had never explained why they needed to come here beyond saying there were Death Eaters here. 

_And now Lucius Malfoy is here as well._

It was all so….

_Hang on a mo’._

He closed his eyes. Of course it wasn’t random. There was a perfectly logical explanation. 

_This is all Malfoy’s doing._

Malfoy had arranged everything. Malfoy had _told_ the Death Eaters to come here, and Malfoy had lured him here under the pretext of hunting Death Eaters. But Malfoy never intended to help him catch Death Eaters. 

_This is a trap._

_Malfoy has brought me here._

Of course Malfoy wanted to get him out of England, to a foreign country where he didn’t know anyone and no-one could help him. 

_To a city full of Death Eaters._

_And he’s planning his revenge._

He thought back to the bar last night. He’d been so shocked by what he saw Lucius Malfoy doing that he had completely lost his head and hadn’t reacted properly at all. 

_That was probably intentional._

_Shock tactics._

_Throw me off my guard._

Lucius Malfoy must have been there to spy on him. Perhaps Lucius Malfoy was actually tailing him now, following him everywhere he went. He glanced left and right. All he could see were normal-looking Muggles, but could one of them be Lucius Malfoy under Polyjuice potion? 

_I don’t see Lucius Malfoy disguising himself as a Muggle._

_But then, I don’t see Lucius Malfoy kissing a man, yet that’s_ exactly _what I saw last night._

He wandered back up the street and found himself at the fountain where he had seen Auntie the other day. It didn’t look like any fountain he had seen before. It was sort of octagonal, covered in gothic medieval carvings, and on each face of the octagon there emerged a pipe from which water flowed. 

_I guess it’s more like a medieval drinking fountain._

_Or something._

There was a high lip above the trough where the water drained away. The lip always seemed to be covered in tourists who sat filling water bottles from the pipes, talking, applying sun cream. He sat down on it. He could feel a headache coming on. 

He couldn’t get the image of Lucius Malfoy kissing that dark-haired man out of his mind. 

_Please try harder to stop thinking about it._

He had really thought it was Malfoy. 

_So what. Malfoy told you he likes blokes._

_And he definitely likes Muggle stuff._

_So why wouldn’t he be out, pashing Muggle blokes?_

He didn’t understand why he was thinking about this. 

 _No, I_ do _know._

_It’s because Malfoy started a stupid rumour._

_I’ve been directly implicated in Malfoy’s—doings._

_Of course I’m thinking about it._

He really should have felt _more_ shocked by the Lucius Malfoy incident. Malfoy Senior was a blood purist who had tried to push an anti-Muggle act through the Wizengamot andwho was, quite apart from anything else, _married._

_Please stop thinking about this._

It was just lucky that he’d been able to keep Ron from seeing. Ron would have panicked and started sending spells every which way. It was much better that he had kept a low profile. 

_This information could be useful._

_Maybe I could blackmail Lucius Malfoy?_

No, that wouldn’t work. If Lucius Malfoy had gone so far as to wink at him, he had no fear of blackmail. 

_And who would believe that Lucius Malfoy goes slumming in Muggle bars?_

He had no evidence to back it up, after all.

The sun was shining in his eyes. He put up his hand to shade his eyes. He really did have a headache coming on. What he found ironic was that he had thought he needed to be put in St Mungo’s for the rest of his life, out of sight, out of mind, ignored and forgotten and every so often ridiculed by strangers. 

_Well, I’m not mad after all._

_And I’m not in Mungo’s._

He was free and could do whatever he pleased, but he was being treated as if he were one of those patients. 

_Ignored._

_Forgotten._

_Ridiculed._

Malfoy started that rumour, and now everyone believed it—even _Ginny_ , apparently. She had written that note and left it on Malfoy’s car. 

_Delighted to see that you and Malfoy have finally found each other._

_We all know how happy that will make him._

Ginny hadn’t even looked at him when he was with the DA in the derelict house. She hadn’t even glanced in his direction. 

_She’s not the same girl I used to know._

_It’s like she’s changed completely._

The Ginny he knew had been fiery, she’d had _spirit_. 

 _But she wasn’t a complete_ bitch. 

He was glad Ginny was over him, because he was over _her_. That was for sure. 

_I don’t want to go out with a girl like that._

_I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a girl like that._

He had just been forced to sneak out of the headquarters of Dumbledore’s Army while they were asleep because he knew Ron had only brought him there because he’d been legless, and if everyone woke up and found him there, he had the feeling Ron would be in trouble with _Nev_ and _Gin._

_I’m not welcome there._

And Dumbledore’s Army wasn’t just a bunch of kids running around the corridors at night and cursing snitches with spots that never healed. Ron had talked about it with a pride in his voice and light in his eyes that he’d only seen a few times before. 

_The wizarding world needs Dumbledore’s Army._

_They need a team of strong, dedicated young people to bring the wizarding world back to what it was._

All of this time, he’d thought Ginny and Neville were playing silly buggers. It had all seemed so laughable. But he wasn’t laughing now.

_I mean, we need to include all my brothers, you know._

And it was very, very clear to him now why Ron was acting the way he was. Because of course Ron was loyal to him as a friend. But for Ron nothing could compete with loyalty to his family. 

_All of the Weasleys are in Dumbledore’s Army._

_And Ginny’s the head. Commander. General. Boss._

He should have got up and left that pub when Ron told him what he’d done while he was away from him and Hermione. 

_While we were shivering in the woods,_

_eating mushrooms and wearing that cursed necklace…_

Ron had been plotting against him. Joining forces with the rebellion. 

_What do they call it?_

_A coup._

_That’s it._

_There’s been a coup._

He should have gotten up and walked out, but he’d been so relieved to see Ron… he’d wanted things to be back to normal between him and Ron. They’d had a laugh, last night. It was fun. While he’d been pissed, he had been able to feel as if things were like the old days. 

_But they aren’t._

_Everything’s changed._

_It will never go back to how it was._

Ron had been serious. Completely serious. 

 _This is my chance to_ be _someone._

_You’re coming to Dumbledore’s Army, right?_

_Harry,_ everyone _is in it._

Everyone was in Dumbledore’s Army now. 

_Everyone except me._

_Oh, and Malfoy._

_Everyone except me and Malfoy._

His head was pounding now, and he felt nauseous. 

_I’m not going crawling back to them, asking them to let me in._

_I’m not going crawling back to Ginny._

Dumbledore’s Army were planning to catch the remaining Death Eaters, but he didn’t know how that was going to work.

_Snape was the link—he was the spy._

All of the information that Dumbledore had about Voldemort’s activities had come through Snape. 

_But Snape is dead._

_How are they going to find out where the Death Eaters are?_

This morning George Weasley had told him that Dumbledore’s Army had not left Dubrovnik because they had no leads, no information. 

_I told them that, thank you very much._

_I_ told _them they wouldn’t be able to find out where the Death Eaters were._

_Not without a source._

_They had nothing, I had Malfoy._

_Malfoy._

He felt his jaw clench in anger, but nodded grimly. 

_I’ll have to use Malfoy._

There was no other way. Malfoy had access to information about where the Death Eaters were, and there was nowhere else he could get that information. 

_Malfoy…_

Malfoy _knew_ he needed him. In the field that night, Malfoy had teased him about it. Malfoy had dared him to go off with the DA and find the Death Eaters without Malfoy’s help. 

_I’d like to see you find a Death Eater without my help_ _._

Malfoy _knew_ he wanted to find the Death Eaters and Malfoy had used that as a lure to string him along.

_He’s so devious._

_The most devious, slick snake I’ve ever met._

That was why Malfoy had showed up after the Battle of Hogwarts. Malfoy knew that as soon as he found out the Death Eaters had escaped, he would want to pursue them.

_He’s been watching me for years._

_Trying to figure me out._

Malfoy had always taken every chance he could to irritate him, provoke him. 

_He was testing my reactions._

_Seeing what I did in this situation or that._

Malfoy couldn’t get to know him like a friend could, but he could find out a lot—maybe more—about him as an enemy. An antagonist. 

_And now he’s putting all of that knowledge to use._

Malfoy had been manipulating him ever since they left Hogwarts together. He took a deep breath.

_Wow._

The scale of Malfoy’s manipulativeness was staggering. He had certainly never gone so far as to _trust_ Malfoy, nowhere near it, but to some extent he had let down his guard once he thought that Malfoy was just trying to save his own skin. 

_Of course, that’s just what he wanted to do._

_Lull me into a false sense of security._

Putting him up at the Manor, feeding him good food, having the House Elves wait on him hand and foot. All little details intended to put him at his ease. 

_Of course that’s what Malfoy’s been doing the whole time._

He was kicking himself. It all made sense now. Why Malfoy had been acting _different_. 

_The field…_

_At Malfoy’s house today…_

Malfoy _had_ been… 

The pain in his head was intense, burning, almost like when his scar used to burn. It was a throbbing pain accompanied by nausea that made him wish he could vacate his body just to escape it. 

_Malfoy’s been acting different, very different._

Malfoy had become less aggressive, verbally and physically. He had become less hostile. He had gone almost… docile. He had tried to fight Malfoy several times in the past few days and Malfoy had refused to engage. He had just run away. 

_He was doing that on purpose, Harry,_

_Don’t you get it?_

And Malfoy had smiled and joked and… He’d _thought_ Malfoy was buttering him up, but it wasn’t just that. It went much further than that, he realised now. 

_Malfoy really was flirting with me._

_He was, absolutely, full-on, flirting with me._

That was what Malfoy had been doing that night in the field, when he’d made that comment about Malfoy’s hair. It was what Malfoy had been doing yesterday, when he’d gone to take Malfoy to task about the rumours.

_What do you want me to say, Potter?_

_Malfoy was making a pass at me._

His mind was racing. He couldn’t believe it. 

_Malfoy told everyone that he—that something happened in the Quidditch showers._

_But he knows it didn’t, really._

And that was a problem for Malfoy. Malfoy couldn’t _prove_ he’d really done it. Some people didn’t believe it.

_It’s just a rumour._

_The other Death Eaters probably don’t believe him._

_Not all of them._

_So he wants to change that._

But if Malfoy had been planning to … attack him, he had had plenty of chances to do that. Malfoy had had plenty of chances to catch him unaware, defenceless. 

_So why didn’t he…_

He pressed a hand to his forehead. 

_I feel like shite._

He wished he were in a cool, dark room where he could sleep, instead of sitting on a fountain under the hot sun. 

_I don’t know why Malfoy didn’t attack me when he had the chance._

“Harry,” the voice was high and thin. 

He looked up to see Auntie standing there, wearing a different sun dress this time. 

_Oh … bugger._

He shouldn’t have sat here. And he shouldn’t have stayed sitting here so long. 

_Of course she’s still looking for me._

“Did you…” she said, nervously. “Did you read it?” 

He stared back at her stonily. “I threw it away.”

The blood drained from her face. She swayed on the spot. For a moment, he actually thought she was going to faint. She swallowed with difficulty. “No. You can’t hate me that much.” 

_Oh, really?_

He crossed his arms. “I left it in that restaurant.” 

She took a long, shuddering breath. “I just wanted to explain to you—”

“It’s too late, Auntie.”

She gasped at the use of her old name. 

_Yes._

_You are my Auntie._

“You shouldn’t have tried to keep me from going back to the wizarding world.” He said. 

Her mouth gaped. 

“You told me that Dumbledore was bad,” he said. “And you tried to stop him from taking me to live with the Weasleys.” He shook his head. “You should have told me I was a wizard,” he said. “You should have told me the truth about how my parents died. You’re a terrible person. That’s what you are.” 

She stared back at him, her eyes wide. “Can—can you ever forgive me for that?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

_No._

_I can’t._

“I never wanted to see you again after you left Privet Drive last summer. Nothing’s changed. Don’t bother me again.” 

He got up and walked away, leaving her standing here, clutching her handbag, staring after him. 


	70. Nothing Has Changed

**Draco**

The sun was hot on his face and shoulders. The pebbles of the beach were hot under his t-shirt and jeans.  
****

_Bend me break me_

_Any way you need me_

_All I want is you_

He turned the volume button up on the Walkman. 

_Bend me break me_

_Breaking down is easy_

_All I want is you_

He’d found the Walkman in the bottom of the bag Father had given him when he’d kicked him out. He recognised the bag as his old beach bag, and the Walkman as one he’d kept in there so he would have music on the beach. When he left the house he had left the Old Town and walked through the more normal Muggle city which surrounded it. He had passed a record store and decided to get batteries, headphones and some cassettes to listen to. 

In the New Releases display he had found an album by one of his favourite bands, Garbage. It was called Version 2.0. He had grabbed both the CD and the cassette and had taken it straight to the cashier. _Is this new?_ He’d asked the girl behind the counter. _Brand new_ , she had said. _It just arrived. We’re lucky to get it so quickly. It was only released a few days ago._

Then he had taken the bus to the beach and laid down in the sun to listen to the album. The music was dark, powerful, melodic, and the lyrics…

_This album is my life._

A cool wind blew, cutting pleasantly through the heat of the sun. 

_This is literally my life._

“Ow!” Something had nipped at his hand. He pulled off his headphones and turned around to see an owl crouching on the sand, blinking at him. He reached out and took the letter off its leg with a sinking feeling. It flapped wildly and took off into the wind. 

_This can’t be good._

Probably Mum had arrived to take Father home before he could put himself in any more danger. He understood now why Mum had closed down the wards. 

_She knew Father would want revenge for Sir’s death._

_She knew Father would avenge him._

_But she also knew Father would probably get himself killed if he tried._

Father had said Mum tried to distract him with the baby. 

_She hoped if he had Sir’s son to take care of, he wouldn’t want to leave the Manor._

To be honest, he was surprised she hadn’t come straight after Father. It was only because he and Father had been arguing so much that he hadn’t had a chance to ask about it yet. 

_But how can she come and get Father?_

_She would have to leave the baby behind, and I don’t think she would do that._

That was what Father was banking on, he realised. Father _knew_ she wouldn’t leave the baby, so he wasn’t worried she would come after him. 

_I really don’t want to think about what Father wants to do._

In fact, he had been studiously not thinking about it ever since Father had told him. 

_I don’t want to think about Dolohov._

_Or Fenrir Greyback._

_Or Father going after them._

He sighed and unrolled the letter. 

_Dragon, better come home again. Your young man is here. xxx Dad_

“What?” He exclaimed out loud, to no-one. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed the beach bag and, without further ado, Disapparated. 

“Argh!” Potter’s shocked shout was the first thing he heard as he appeared in the living room. Potter was sitting on the sofa, one leg crossed, but he leaped to his feet when he appeared. 

“Potter,” he said, dropping the beach bag on the sofa and his hands on his hips. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He craned his neck around. “Dad?” 

“He went out,” Potter said casually, then sat back down on the sofa. “Have a seat,” he said, indicating the sofa opposite. 

_He went out._

_Have a seat?_

He stared at Potter. Had he taken a blow to the head? Was he concussed? Could that explain this behaviour? 

_What did Father say to him?_

_What did Potter say to Father?_

_Oh, Hecate._

_Did Potter try to curse him?_

_Was Father stoned?_

“Alright, _stand_ ,” Potter said. “It’s no skin off my nose.” 

He frowned. “Do you want the book? I mean, the letters? The _Romance of Pet and Nara_?” He quickly pulled it out of his bag. “Here, take it.” 

_And then get out of here._

Potter waved his hand dismissively. “No, you can keep that. I’m here for something else.” 

He stared dumbfounded at Potter. “What?” 

“I changed my mind about the Death Eaters,” Potter said. “I want to go after them.” 

He stared at Potter. 

_No._

_No, no, no._

He needed to get Father _out_ of here _without_ any more Death Eater business. If Father went after those men…

_I’ve really been trying not to think about this._

If Father went after those men… 

_It’s dangerous._

_It’s far too dangerous._

In fact, it was rather strange that he hadn’t heard from Mum at all, since Father had escaped. His eyes fell on the small fireplace on the far wall. He got up. 

_Father always disposes of letters in the fireplace._

“Malfoy?” Potter said. 

There were some rolled-up bits of parchment in there. He got down on his knees, picked one of them up and unrolled it and read the first few lines.

_Lucius,_

_For the sake of your son and John’s child, put aside your rage and think again on this fool’s errand. This cannot end well…_

He unrolled the others. They were all addressed to his father and were all along the same lines. 

_Mum wouldn’t write to me, of course._

_She thinks I’m with Potter and Dumbledore’s Army._

Mum was too much of a pro to risk exposing him by sending him an owl. It would only take one unscrupulous person to open it and his cover would be blown. She had probably tried his mobile, it had gone straight to voice mail and she had left it at that. 

_But she trusts me._

_She trusts me to do the right thing._

He sighed. Mum was counting on him to bring Father home again. 

_I have to save him._

_It’s up to me now._

He stood up slowly. 

“Malfoy?” Potter said, sounding puzzled. 

He went back to sit down on the sofa, feeling empty. If he did bring Father home, what kind of home would it be? 

_Sir is dead._

He tried to imagine the Manor without Sir, but just with Mum and Dad living there, for the rest of their lives. He couldn’t do it. 

_And what about the baby?_

_Who will be his parents?_

_Mum and Father?_

_I don’t think so._

Sir was supposed to be Lynx’s father. 

_In a perfect world…_

In a perfect world, he knew that Sir and Father wanted to raise Lynx as their son. 

_Now Father will never get the family he wanted._

_He’s just stuck with the one that happened to include me._

“Potter,” he said, but he didn’t know what else to say.

_How can I explain any of this to him?_

_Oh, right._

_I can’t._

He fished in the beach bag until he found the small glass vial and held it out to Potter. 

Potter looked at him strangely. “What is it?” 

“It’s my—apology,” he said. 

“Apology?” Potter said, his cocky manner faltering. 

He forced himself to speak. “I made this yesterday after you left. It’s my memory of what happened that night.” His heart was pounding and he felt sick shame filling his stomach. 

“What night?” Potter said in a tone of forced confidence. 

“The night I told Myrtle,” he said, feeling his face start to burn again. 

_Does he really want to make me relive the humiliation again?_

_Haven’t we been through this enough?_

“Oh,” Potter said. “No, I don’t want that.”

The bottom fell out of his stomach. “You—you have to take it,” he said. 

“I don’t want it,” Potter said forcefully.

“But it proves—” he said. He couldn’t believe he was having to say this. He couldn’t believe Potter wouldn’t just take it. 

_I know my words could be taken out of context._

_The way Peeves said it…_

_It wasn’t clear that I wanted…you to want it._

_It wasn’t clear that I wanted it to be… consensual._

_I can’t control what anyone else said…_

_I can’t control gossip or rumours…_

_But I can prove that…_

Potter finally stretched out his hand. 

Relieved, he placed the vial on Potter’s palm. Potter stuck it in his pocket. 

“No, I need to know that you’ve watched it,” he said. “If you accept it, you have to watch it.” Potter could just be trying to placate him. Potter wanted information on the Servants, after all. 

Potter flashed a glance at him. “Tell me what it says,” he said. 

“W-what?” 

Potter shook the little bottle so that the silvery memory fluid inside it bounced around. “What’s in here? I don’t much fancy diving straight into your head, Malfoy, no offence.” 

He closed his eyes. “I already told you part of it,” he said. “Now I’m just showing you the—the context.” 

Potter shook his head, a slight smirk lifting the corner of one lip. 

_He’s enjoying this._

_Sick bastard._

_Laughing at my pain._

He opened his mouth but no words came out. 

_I can’t do it._

_I just can’t do it._

_I can’t repeat what I said to Moaning Myrtle to Potter’s face._

The next time Potter came face to face with one of the Servants, they were going to have a field day. None of _them_ were going to hold back.

_Do you want him to hear that, not knowing your side of it?_

_What will he think of you?_

_You know what he’ll think of you._

_It’s probably what he thinks right now._

He dug his fingers into the sofa cushions and held on as hard as he could, so hard it was almost painful. “I told Myrtle,” he said. “That I—” he thought he was going to have an out of body experience. He heard himself say, “That I had feelings for you.” 

He didn’t look at Potter. He stared at the grain of the sofa fabric. There was silence. 

_I feel sick._

“Oh,” said Potter. 

He wished he could just evaporate into the ether. Anything would be better than this. 

“And what about now?” Potter asked

A jolt of pure terror flashed through his very being.

_He didn’t just ask me that._

One heartbeat.

Then another. 

“I—still—have them,” he forced the words out. It felt like his vocal cords were paralysed, as if his entire body was revolting against him saying the words. His heart kept beating, and he sat there, bathed in shame, wishing he were an owl or a rat or some other creature, not a wizard. 

“Cool,” Potter said. “Apology accepted.” 

_Huh?_

He still couldn’t look Potter in the eye. He just stared at his feet, which he had drawn up under him as he sat on the sofa. 

“So let’s hunt some Death Eaters, eh?” Potter said in a fake, bright voice. 

_What is he playing at?_

He wasn’t sure, but he felt so bad that he couldn’t bear to contemplate it. 

_How come Mum had Pet?_

_Father had Sir?_

_But I don’t get anyone?_

He forced himself to get a handle on the situation, get this under control. “So you want me to help you locate the remaining Servants,” he said. 

“Yes,” Potter said. 

He forced himself to raise his head and make eye contact with Potter. “I’ll do it,” he said, “under one condition.” 

He was sure Potter was doing this because he thought it would give him a way to get back in Dumbledore’s Army’s—and Weasley’s—good graces. Considering the Light’s pitiful intelligence network and the fact that Dumbledore’s Army was essentially a ragtag group of kids, there was no way they had access to decent information about what the Servants were doing at the moment. 

_The DA doesn’t have much choice about going to Potter._

_And Potter doesn’t have much choice about coming to me._

_I don’t really see why I should help Potter get back together with his girlfriend._

_Or help any of those gibbering idiots on their misguided quest for glory._

Asking Potter to do this was going to cause him more humiliation. Whatever Potter had felt yesterday would be magnified. Many times. Because Potter had probably figured out that the rumours had spread beyond Hogwarts, even as far as the Reptile’s supporters. 

So Potter would be coming face to face with a man he hated, knowing that man had heard the despicable rumours…

_My alternative is to refuse to help you._

_In which case I’ll be forced to shadow Father, alone._

“I need to protect my father,” he explained.

Potter’s eyebrows went skyward. “Protect him?”

“My father is… out for revenge,” he said. “He’s grieving and he’s not acting responsibly. I’m afraid he’s going to take risks and get himself killed.” He had to choose his words carefully now. “He lost someone in the Battle of Hogwarts. Someone very, very important to him. And he wants to avenge that person’s death.” 

Potter looked at him for quite some time, which made him feel incredibly uncomfortable. He didn’t want Potter looking at him. He didn’t want to be anywhere near Potter. The very sight of Potter made him feel sick and wretched. 

“His… lover?” Potter said. 

_Thank Hecate._

Potter had picked up the scent. He was pretty sure he knew where Potter would follow it. Potter would be wrong, of course, but it would be plausible enough, and good enough for this explanation.

“So I will help you locate the remaining Servants but only if you agree that my father is off-limits. You agree to help me keep him out of harm’s way and agree not to arrest him. When it’s over, you let him go.” 

Potter nodded slowly. “That’s your price?” 

_I need your help._

_He’s my father._

_I don’t have anyone else I can ask._

He nodded. 

“Yeah,” Potter said. “Yeah, I get that. Okay. It’s a deal.” Potter held out his hand. 

He looked at Potter’s extended hand. All of a sudden he was eleven years old again, standing in the Hogwarts Express, meeting Harry Potter for the second time and trying to get it right this time. 

_Seven years later._

_What has changed?_

He extended his hand, clasped Potter’s and managed to look him in the eye. “It’s a deal.” 

_Nothing._

The fact that this time Potter was the one extending his hand, and the handshake was accepted, meant nothing.

_Potter still hates me._

_In fact, he hates me more now than he ever did before._

_Thanks to me his name has been smeared all over the wizarding world._

_And people think that I…_

He still couldn’t think about what others were thinking about him. It was too horrible. 

_And I’m still a disappointment to my parents._

And now he could appreciate how much of a disappointment he was. Because neither his mother, nor his father, nor Sir, had gotten the life they wanted. None of them had had their dreams come true. Instead they had put everything they had into the only solution they could think of to try to ensure their survival and that of their families. 

_I was their last resort._

_They did everything they could to make sure I would succeed._

_And look how that turned out._

_Look how I turned out._

It’s seven years later for me. 

It’s nineteen years later for Pet and Nara.

_And nothing has changed._

Nothing was ever going to change for him here. 

_I have to accept that._


	71. Sexy

**Harry**

“It’s a deal,” Malfoy said, shaking his hand.   
****

“How are you going to act toward my father?” Malfoy asked without preamble.

“How am _I_ going to act toward him?” He said angrily. “You’re asking how _I’m_ going to act toward _him_?”

Malfoy stood up. “I’ve been cooped up in this house far too long,” he said. “Have you ever walked the city walls of Dubrovnik?” 

“No,” he said. He didn’t even know what that was. 

“Let’s go,” Malfoy said. 

*

_This is pretty cool._

He had to admit that, even thought it had been Malfoy’s idea. 

“In Roman times, soldiers used to patrol these walls,” Malfoy shaded his eyes while he turned and said this to him, then turned and continued walking down the narrow passage between the ramparts, which came up to about chest height on him. 

_I remember this._

It turned out that you could walk on top of the castle-like wall that ran around the Old Town of Dubrovnik. From up here, the sea stretched out to one side and to the other, mountainous, scrubby hills rose behind the city. 

  _I remember walking here._

The wall was narrow enough that they had to walk single file. 

Malfoy paused and pointed ahead. “See the guard station there? We can stop and talk there.” 

He was sweating under the sun, but there was a strong breeze cooling the back of his neck. The sea and sky were deep blue. From here he could see how the city was perched on white rocks which tumbled into the sea. In addition to the forested island he had seen from the bar, he could see a small harbour loomed over by white stones, with another castle perched on top. 

_There’s nothing like this is in Great Britain._

There were tourists ahead and behind, so he and Malfoy didn’t try to talk, just kept walking. The wall was made of the same pale stone as the rest of the city, and it was hot under his touch. 

The guard station was an area where the wall opened out into a triangular terrace. There was some shade, a stand selling drinks and post cards. Tourists were snapping photographs of each other posed against the deep blue sea. 

He leaned against the wall in a slightly quieter corner while Malfoy bought a bottle of water. 

“Who was your father having an affair with?” He asked Malfoy when he came to lean against the wall next to him. 

Malfoy was taking a sip of water and glanced at him. 

_Okay._

_He’s not just going to come out and say it._

“It must have been someone on our side, right?” He said. 

_It has to be._

_Otherwise he would be looking for revenge on our side._

_Rather than his own._

Malfoy pushed the hair away from his neck and held the cold water bottle against it. The condensation started to run down his neck. “Right,” he said. 

“Was it Snape?” He asked. 

Malfoy glanced at him. “I’m not going to tell you, Potter. Do you think I’m stupid?”

A sea breeze blew and ruffled his hair. 

Malfoy closed his eyes as the breeze cooled the water on his skin. Malfoy opened his eyes and eyed him. “How are you going to act toward my father?”

He bristled. The question and the way it was phrased were a bit much. 

_As if I have a reason to be polite to Lucius Malfoy._

“How is _he_ going to act toward _me_?” He replied testily. 

_Because if he starts making comments—_

_If he starts in on that whole thing—_

He didn’t think he would be able to control himself. 

Malfoy turned and looked at him. “Oh, my father _loves_ you.” 

He scowled. “If you’re not going to take this seriously—”

“I’m _being_ serious, Potter,” Malfoy deadpanned. “He thinks you’re adorable.” 

_Right._

_So basically this is going to be one long round of humiliation._

_Malfoy is going to tease me into the ground, and no doubt Daddy Dearest will feel free to join in._

He could feel himself getting red in the face. 

_It’s just words._

_Words never hurt anyone._

_Right?_

“I won’t curse him as long as he doesn’t curse me.” 

He was just going to have to put up and shut up. Of course this was the perfect opportunity for Malfoy to milk the Peeves joke to the utmost. 

_This is Malfoy’s dream come true._

_All his Christmases come at once._

_He can embarrass me as much as he wants_

_And he knows I can’t do anything about it_

_Because I need his information about the Death Eaters._

It wasn’t going to be pleasant, but at the end of it things were going to be completely different for him and _that_ was going to make it worth it. 

_Probably they will have to get Ginny to step down._

_And have me be the leader of Dumbledore’s Army._

If Ginny couldn’t even organise the arrest of a few Death Eaters, she was hardly qualified to lead the next generation of wizards. 

_A team of strong, dedicated young people to bring the wizarding world back to what it was._

Ginny was trying to push him out of all that. She was trying to make sure that he had no part in the future of the wizarding world. 

_Well, I won’t go down without a fight._

_I’m Harry Potter._

_Others greater than her have tried to eliminate me before._

He eyed Malfoy, who was staring out to sea, the wind stirring his hair. 

_Others greater, and others lesser._

It was clear to him now that Malfoy didn’t care about the other Death Eaters one way or the other. Malfoy didn’t care if they were arrested and spent the rest of their lives in Azkaban, or if they got off completely scot-free. The only thing that Malfoy cared about was destroying him and his reputation so completely that he would have no future in the wizarding world. 

And Malfoy was going about it in a particularly Malfoyish way. 

_I have feelings for you._

He was trying to figure out what Hermione would say about this if she were here. 

_I think he’s trying to seduce you, Harry._

_He wants to make that rumour come true, but…_

_He knows how much more devastating it would be to you and your reputation if…_

_You did it willingly._

_You see what I mean?_

He could just imagine Hermione sitting here with him, explaining things in a clear and calm tone. He looked at Malfoy’s profile. He was sitting there calmly looking out at the ocean. 

_He is—I know this sounds strange, Harry, because it is Malfoy, but—_

_He is sexy, isn’t he?_

He frowned. _Hermione, don’t be ridiculous._

_Look at his pale skin, his angular shoulders, his long legs._

_Hermione, stop it now._

_Look at his narrow waist under those tight t-shirts he wears._

_Goodness, I think he’s_ very _sexy._

 _Hermione,_ shut it _!_

Malfoy had to be mad to think he would ever sleep with him. The whole idea was ridiculous. 

_I like girls._

_Where would he get the idea I like blokes?_

_Besides which, we hate each other._

_And he’s evil._

_It doesn’t make any sense._

But he couldn’t think of any other explanation for the way Malfoy had been acting. 

_It has to be that._

_Doesn’t it?_

_But then why is he still trying to embarrass me?_

_I’m hardly going to feel attracted to him if he keeps embarrassing me._

_Like when he tried to give me his memories of what he said to Myrtle._

_That’s the last thing I want to see!_

He couldn’t think of anything more mortifying than being forced to watch the exact moment when Malfoy sealed his fate as the laughingstock of the wizarding world.

But then why had Malfoy said what he said next? 

_I had feelings for you._

Malfoy had sat there, looking sullen, and muttered those words. 

_And what about now?_

He’d asked because Malfoy looked so uncomfortable and the question couldn’t possibly make him _more_ comfortable, and if anyone deserved to feel a little uncomfortable after what they had done, it was Malfoy.

_I still have them._

If Malfoy was trying to get revenge by seducing him, he didn’t understand why Malfoy had done that. Why the sulking?

 _Don’t you see, Harry_ , Hermione would say. _If he came over all cocky you would never buy it._

_So he’s acting embarrassed and timid so you feel like you’re the confident one, the one who’s in control._

_He wants to make_ you _come to_ him _._

He was feeling uncomfortable with Hermione’s reasoning. 

 _So what when it happens,_ you’re _the one who starts it—_

 _There is no_ when _, Hermione._

_No-one is ‘starting’ anything._

_But why the teasing? Where is that going to get him?_

_It’s_ not _going to make me want to sleep with him._

 _Ah, well_ , Hermione would say. _I think he’s warning you that his_ father _is going to tease you._

_How d’you figure that?_

_I don’t know about the memories, Harry. But just now I think he really was just trying to tell you his father is going to tease you mercilessly and you’d better be ready for it, if you want this partnership to work._

_Partnership_ , he scoffed. _Yeah, right._

He decided to push Hermione out of his head for now. Ron wasn’t as insightful as Hermione but he could count on Ron not to say anything disturbing about Malfoy’s looks or schemes.

_Yeah, I dunno, Harry, mate._

_I reckon ’Mione’s right._

_It’s best to just agree with her, you know?_

_I don’t blame you for checking Malfoy out, don’t get me wrong._

_He looks like a girl, he dresses like a girl._

_He’s confusing you._

_It could happen to any bloke._

He glanced at Malfoy. 

_Yeah, Ron._

_I think you’re right._

_Yeah, it must be that._

“I don’t know if that will be enough,” Malfoy said, turning to him and squinting a little in the bright sun. 

“Sorry?” 

He had totally lost the thread of what they had been talking about. Malfoy’s eyes seemed to sparkle in the sunshine.

“I mean about my father,” Malfoy said. “You said you wouldn’t curse him as long as he didn’t curse you.” 

“Yeah?”

Malfoy didn’t really look like a girl, though. He wasn’t soft and curvy like a girl. His body was thin and hard and he definitely looked like a boy. Just a very, very _pretty_ boy. 

_As pretty as a veela._

_A beautiful boy veela._

_‘Mione! Get out of Harry’s head._

_He doesn’t need to hear any more of that…_

_Sorry ’bout her, mate._

“If this is going to work, you’ll have to be willing to… _work_ with him—”

“Absolutely not,” he folded his arms. “That’s never going to happen.” 

Malfoy tipped his head back to drain the last of the water from the bottle. He could see the muscles moving in Malfoy’s neck as he swallowed. 

_Harry, mate, what are you doing?_

_Best not to look, Harry._

_Look at something else._

_Over there, look. A seagull._

He forced himself to look away.

“So how do you think this is going to work, then?” Malfoy asked. “You think my father is just going to do as you tell him, just because you’re Harry Potter?” Malfoy’s voice rose with an undercurrent of irritation that was not teasing at all.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, snapping back to Malfoy. “What’s what supposed to mean?” 

“I mean _I’m_ a lot more accommodating than he will be,” Malfoy said, folding his arms. 

“ _You_? _Accommodating_?” He laughed. 

“Of course I am.” 

He ran his hand through his hair. “If _you’re_ the benchmark for accommodating, I can’t imagine what your father will be like.” 

“Potter,” Malfoy said. “I’m willing to work with you. Do you get what I mean by that? I’m not just following your orders because I think you’re superior to me.” 

He frowned. “When have you ever followed my orders?” 

Malfoy leaned back on his hands and looked at him coolly. “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for the past five days?” 

“Er…not really.” He was suspicious of this entire conversation. 

_What is he try to do?_

Malfoy threw up his hands. “I’ve done _everything_ you asked of me!” He cried in exasperation.

“You were my _prisoner_ , remember?” It seemed like Malfoy had been conveniently forgetting this fact. “You _had_ to do as I said.” 

“No, I was _not_ your prisoner,” Malfoy said. “I had a _life debt_ to you which I _chose_ to repay. There is a difference, Potter.” 

“About that,” he said suggestively. 

“Yes?” Malfoy said, increasingly irritated. 

“Did you arrange that life debt on purpose? Did you come to the Room of Requirement to try to endanger yourself so I would have to save your life?”

Malfoy went very still. “Whatever gave you that idea?” He said in a flat voice. 

_I’m onto you, Malfoy._

He shrugged. “I just don’t understand why you showed up at that particular time and place. It seemed very random.”

_Don’t think that just because I’m a Gryffindor, I can’t be as devious as a Slytherin._

_I may not be as clever as Hermione, but I’m not an idiot either—as you so clearly like to think._

Malfoy pursed his lips. They were pale pink, delicately shaped, and rather full.

_Have his lips always been that full?_

_Harry, mate!_

_You’re doing it again._

“Look, Potter, I repaid my debt,” Malfoy said. “Can you just drop it now?”

Which wasn’t really an answer at all. 

_You know what, Malfoy?_

_Two can play at this game._

_You want to mess around with me?_

_Don’t think I won’t mess you right back._

“My point,” Malfoy said. “Is that if you want to work with my father, you can’t be hostile and rude.” 

“I don’t want to _work with him_ ,” he retorted. “I don’t want to _work_ with _you_ either.” 

_No, wait._

_This isn’t the way to do it._

He needed to be more devious. If he wanted to stymie Malfoy’s plans, he was going to have to use the same tactics Malfoy was using on him.

_Plain dealing doesn’t work with Malfoys._

_It has to be underhanded, sleight-of-hand._

_I can do it._

_Acting like a Gryffindor hasn’t gotten me anywhere._

_Telling the truth, standing up for what’s right._

_I’ve done that all my life and look where it’s gotten me._

_Homeless, friendless, hated, a laughingstock._

Malfoy stood up, his eyes flashing in the sun. “You _don’t_ want to? Well, fine. That’s your choice. I’ll be leaving now, then.” 

_I call your bluff._

He leaned back on the stone ledge and crossed one leg over the other casually. “Why are you doing this, Malfoy?” 

Malfoy’s gaze faltered. “What?”

“You said you were willing to _work with me_. Why? You just pointed out that your paid back your debt. You owe me nothing.” 

Malfoy looked back at him. 

“I thought you were doing this so that you could avoid prison time when the Death Eaters are brought to justice. But I don’t think you are.” He hadn’t quite put all of this together until this moment. Listening to Ron talking about Dumbledore’s Army’s plans and ambitions had thrown into stark contrast how different Malfoy’s attitude was. 

“You don’t seem to care very much about the future of the wizarding world.”

Malfoy was looking at his feet, his arms crossed, his hair falling forward.

He didn’t know what the story was behind Malfoy’s interest in Muggle things, but Malfoy seemed to have a level of expertise and comfort in the Muggle world that he had never seen in a wizard before. “I don’t think you see your future in wizarding Britain at all.” 

Malfoy looked at him and he thought he saw surprise in Malfoy’s eyes. 

_This is a secret._

_It’s Malfoy’s secret._

_No-one knows about this._

_The other Slytherins don’t know._

_He’s never told anyone about this._

He realised it all of a sudden, as so many little pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Malfoy’s car, his mobile phone and Muggle-style room. The fact that he knew so much about the Muggle world. His clear isolation—he didn’t seem to have many, if any friends among the Slytherins. His uncaring attitude toward the Death Eaters and Riddle.

_So why did he share it with me?_

“I want revenge,” Malfoy said quietly. “I want revenge for the death of my father’s partner.” 

_You want revenge, alright._

_But not for this._

“Was it Snape?” 

Malfoy shook his head. “I can’t be the one to unmask him.” 

_Malfoy wants to get his revenge on me, and then he is going to leave the wizarding world._

But he didn’t understand why Malfoy would let him find out his secret. 

_He’s very clever, Harry, don’t you see?_

_He’s actually trying to lure you in._

_So you start to think you know him._

_So you start to think he wouldn’t harm you._

_So you start to… trust him._

He was going to beat Malfoy at this game. He was going to play right into Malfoy’s hands and make Malfoy think his plan was working perfectly. He was going to make Malfoy think that he was slowly but surely gaining power over Harry Potter. 

_And then… at the final moment… when he thinks his victory is in hand…_

He would turn it right back around on Malfoy and _he_ would be the one to taste sweet revenge. 

Malfoy was going to pay for spreading that rumour. 

He was going to pay a thousand times over. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll work with you and your father.” 

Malfoy looked up. 

“I’ll be more… _accommodating_ ,” he said. 

Malfoy nodded, a slight frown creasing his brow, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. The breeze blew his fine, silky hair across his forehead and he pulled it back behind his ear. 

_Draco Malfoy._

_Pretty. Very pretty._

_Very clever._

_But rotten._

_Rotten through and through._


	72. Your Future In Wizarding Britain

**Draco**

_No, Potter._

_I’m serious._

It was hot on the city walls. Almost as hot as it would be in the peak heat of July and August. He was grateful for the cool breeze coming off the sea.

_It’s going to be so embarrassing._

_I don’t know how I’m going to survive it._

Father was going to be absolutely unbearable. Dad was so excited about his and Potter’s fictional relationship it would probably be a miracle if he and Potter got out without being fitted for wedding robes. 

_I need to prepare Potter for this._

“So how do you think this is going to work, then?” He asked Potter sceptically. “You think my father is just going to do as you tell him, just because you’re Harry Potter?” 

“I beg your pardon?” Potter sounded deeply offended. 

_Oh, I’m sorry—did I accidentally tread on your grotesquely disproportionate sense of entitlement?_

“What’s what supposed to mean?” Potter said angrily.

_Remember that time you were allowed onto the Quidditch team as a first-year?_

“I mean,” he said. “ _I’m_ a lot more accommodating than he will be,” 

_Remember when the headmaster personally bought you a top of the line broomstick?_

“ _You_? _Accommodating_?” Potter laughed. 

 _And our Slytherin house victory was taken by_ you _at the last minute in a disgusting display of favouritism._

“Of course I am.” 

_Remember when the rules were dropped or bent for you time and time again?_

“If _you’re_ the benchmark for accommodating, I can’t imagine what your father will be like.” Potter said dismissively. 

_Let’s just say it’s taken a lot of grace on my part to be able to cooperate with you as I have been doing._

“Potter, I’m willing to work with you,” he said, and he was serious now. “Do you get what I mean by that?”

_It means I’m trying._

_I’m really trying._

_I want to be—equals._

“I’m not just following your orders because I think you’re superior to me.” 

_Unlike your mindless cronies._

“When have you ever followed my orders?” Potter said in tones of absolute wonderment. 

_Hello?_

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for the past five days?” 

“Er…not really,” Potter said as if he might as well be examining his nails. 

_I can’t believe this._

“I’ve done _everything_ you asked of me!” 

_And a lot that you didn’t ask._

_Like taking care of you when you were falling apart._

_Even though you nearly killed me._

“You were my _prisoner_ , remember?” Potter said bullishly. “You _had_ to do as I said.” 

_Oh, no he didn’t._

“No, I was _not_ your prisoner,” he said. “I had a _life debt_ to you which I _chose_ to repay. There is a difference, Potter.” 

Potter just couldn’t admit that they could be equals. He wanted it to be the way it always used to be, with one always looking to exploit weakness in the other and crow about it.

_I don’t want to do that any more._

“About that,” Potter said a strange tone of voice. 

“Yes?” 

“Did you arrange that life debt on purpose? Did you come to the Room of Requirement to try to endanger yourself so I would have to save your life?”

_Shit._

He went cold all over. 

_How did he…_

“Whatever gave you that idea?” He tried to keep his voice as emotionless as possible. 

“I just don’t understand why you showed up at that particular time and place. It seemed very random.”

_Yeah, well._

_Sorry I didn’t make it look more convincing._

_Sir said it was the best way of getting and staying close to you._

“Look, Potter, I repaid my debt. Can you just drop it now?” He said, praying that Potter would. “My point is that if you want to work with my father, you can’t be hostile and rude.” 

“I don’t want to _work with him_ ,” Potter snapped. “I don’t want to _work_ with _you_ either.” 

He felt his mood plummet.

_What is the point?_

_He can’t stand me._

“You _don’t_ want to? Well, fine. That’s your choice. I’ll be leaving now, then.” 

_I’m not even bluffing._

He sort of was. But he was at the end of his tether. 

_I can’t keep doing this._

_I just want to talk normally._

_Like I would talk to Sir, or Dad, or…_

“Why are you doing this, Malfoy?” 

“What?”

“You said you were willing to _work with me_. Why?” Potter leaned forward a little. “You just pointed out that your paid back your debt. You owe me nothing.” Potter sat back, looking rather smug as he continued to talk. “I thought you were doing this so that you could avoid prison time when the Death Eaters are brought to justice. But I don’t think you are. You don’t seem to care very much about the future of the wizarding world. I don’t think you see your future in wizarding Britain at all.” 

_What._

The shock was almost physical, as if someone had a burst a balloon right next to his ear. 

_I don’t think you see your future in wizarding Britain at all._

Potter’s green eyes were looking at him, steady, and yes, still rather smug. 

_I’ve never told anyone that._

_I didn’t think you noticed_ anything _I did in the past five days…_

“I want revenge,” he said desperately, hoping he sounded convincing. “I want revenge for the death of my father’s partner.” 

_That’s a lie._

_I need you._

_I don’t want to leave you._

_I’m so happy you came back._

He couldn’t stand how pathetic that sounded. 

_I know I shouldn’t be._

_I know I need to get over you._

“Was it Snape?” 

_No._

_It was a man who had many names._

_John_

_Remus_

_Moony_

_You admired him._

_He always wanted to know you better._

_He always wanted me to know you better._

He lied all the time. It was second nature to him by this point. He felt guilty afterward, but it never stopped him from doing it. Now, though, he couldn’t seem to speak. “I can’t be the one to unmask him.” His tongue fumbled around the words. 

The honest words of a coward. 

_Which is worse?_

_To be a liar or a coward?_

_Now, again, I’m both…_

“Alright,” Potter said. “I’ll work with you and your father.” 

_Thank you._

_Hecate, thank you._

“I’ll be more… _accommodating_ ,” Potter said. “Toward him.” 

He wanted to throw his arms around Potter and kiss his thanks. But all he said was, “Okay. I’ll speak to Father. Ask him to make an effort as well.” 

“Right,” Potter said awkwardly. 

“We have to finish walking the walls,” he informed Potter. “It’s anti-clockwise only.” 

Potter nodded, and he led the way. At least he wouldn’t have to talk to Potter much as long as they were walking along the ramparts. The passage was too narrow to allow two people to walk abreast. 

_I don’t think you see your future in wizarding Britain at all._

_How did he know?_

He’d never told anyone that, not even Sir.

_Potter has basically been ignoring me this entire time._

Potter had taken less than no interest in anything he’d said or done for the past five days. To the point where he’d started to wonder if Potter was just incredibly unobservant, or so self-absorbed that he was incapable of noticing anything that didn’t directly involve him. 

_I guess it’s probably the latter._

To be fair to Potter, he _had_ been experiencing significant psychological distress and that was often associated with being rather preoccupied with one’s own problems. 

_I don’t think you see your future in wizarding Britain at all._

Potter’s eyes on him, Potter’s attention on him like a spotlight—dazzling. Not Potter’s anger, but Potter’s full attention, earnest and true. 

_Oh Potter._

_I see my future with_ you. 

 _No,_ he admonished himself. 

_That is not going to happen._

_You need to put that out of your head._

_Father was wrong._

_I don’t know why that Potter I met in the future acted the way he did._

_All I know is that happened once and only once._

_I went into the future, I saw Potter, and that caused him to come back and see me._

_Continuity is preserved._

_But that’s all that will ever exist of Potter and I._

Potter was going to arrest the remaining Servants, probably his precious Weasley would forgive him and take him back—

_That’s what I would do, anyway._

_Well, obviously._

_But then I’d rather date the giant squid from Hogwarts Lake than that dough-faced Longbottom._

In any case, Potter would get back with Weasley and all the rest of the Lightbunnies would pair up and start producing hordes of Lightbunny babies and Dumbledore’s ghost would be instated as Minister for Magic and it would all be because he helped Potter to arrest the Servants. 

_I think I’ll just go be sick over here._

_I don’t think you see your future in wizarding Britain at all._

_Hecate, Potter. Why do you have to do this to me?_

_After all this time I thought you couldn’t see me all—didn’t notice anything I did—_

_And now you come out with this._

When he’d met _him_ , that night in the safe house, his life had changed forever. 

_They say you never forget your first kiss._

_I will never forget that moment. I will never forget that feeling._

_The way he looked at me…_

It had been wild and strange, like a dream. Potter had stolen his heart, completely. Potter had taken it and he would never get it back. 

_I needed you then._

_And I need you now._

If Potter had hurt his feelings that day, it had only gotten worse with the passing days. Because at the time he hadn’t known that Potter—he hadn’t known _him_. 

But now he had started to see what Potter was like with those he loved. 

He had seen glimpses of him. 

Maybe only brief flashes. 

But he had started to see how Potter could be sweet and fierce and sincere and uncertain. 

And now there were moments when he didn’t know what to do with himself and this terrible, bottomless desire for Potter to become everything. 

_You drive me mad, you know that?_

_I love you_

_Sweetheart_

If Potter could love him… surely that meant he wasn’t so bad? 

_Hope, Draco._

_Hope will be the death of you._

Not all dreams came true. He was learning that now, bit by bit. And if his father couldn’t have what he wanted, and Sir neither, or his mother, then what reason did he have to think that anything he wanted was going to be given to him? 

_No reason._

_There’s no reason at all._

He ached from the unfairness of it. After everything he’d been through, didn’t he deserve _something?_

_Don’t I deserve to have something turn out the way I’d like?_

He knew Potter was walking just behind him but he felt terribly alone. 

_I just need someone to talk to._

_Without any lies or secrets getting in the way._

_Without any expectations of me and what I was supposed to do._

_Just someone who would listen and…_

But he had no-one like that. 

He looked around at the city of Dubrovnik stretched out below him, orange-red roofs of neat, sand-coloured houses, and mixed in were domes and bell towers and the buttresses of a cathedral. The sky and sea were complimentary shades of blue. It was a dazzling sight. 

_Impossible to imagine that all of this was under war_

_That these ancient buildings were blasted by heavy artillery_

One of Mum’s exes, Mira, had fled to Britain during the war. As far as he knew, she still lived there now. Mira had told him about the history of Dalmatia. She’d had dark brown hair and a smile that lit up the room. 

_She was nice._

_Why didn’t Mum stay with her?_

Mum had met Mira on holiday here in Dubrovnik. When Mira had fled to the UK, Mum had helped her get a place to live.

_I don’t understand Mum._

_She knew Pet came here every summer, too._

_So why couldn’t she make up with her?_

Every summer Pet came to Dubrovnik, waiting patiently and hoping. Meanwhile Nara brought a new girlfriend with her every year, or found one among the fruit and vegetable markets or on the beach or in one of the old stone squares, where the umbrellas of the cafes fended off the baking sun. 

_If Pet ever finds out…_

_if it was me, I would be devastated._

He wished that he could have found some answers for him and Potter in those letters. But he’d known when he started that the ending was terribly sad, and it had been, and he wished… 

_I wish I could go back in time._

_I wish I could be who I was before I knew all of this._

_Not just Pet and Nara._

_Not just Sir dying._

_Not just joining the servants._

_Before._

Before he’d started to poison himself and everything that was good and pure in his life. 

_That’s how I became what I am today._

_I did it._

_I did it to myself._

He had poisoned himself with lies. 

He had poisoned himself with his obsession with Potter. 

He’d fed himself on anger, resentment, jealousy, bitterness and rage. 

_That’s how I became this person who does awful things._

He had changed his appearance into someone beautiful. Someone worth loving. 

But he couldn’t change his insides. 

_Rotten._

_Rotten to the core._


	73. Current Events

**Harry**

The wall had widened out into a broad passage raised above the city. He could see the entire town from here.   
****

_It’s really stunning._

_A walled city._

_I wonder how old it is?_

_It looks ancient._

If he had to guess, he would have said it was at least as old as Hogwarts castle. 

Malfoy slowed so they were walking abreast, something he usually tried to avoid by hanging back. Malfoy pointed ahead. “See the look out tower? Let’s go up there. You get a really good view.” 

The tower reminded him of somewhere that medieval archers would hide out, shooting arrows into the enemy ranks below. There was a small, extremely steep stone staircase which led up to a small room above the first, and another even smaller, steeper staircase leading to the roof of the tower. His stomach lurched with vertigo as he emerged onto the roof. 

_Wow._

The view was absolutely stunning. The dark blue sea dominated everything. Gulls floated on the air currents below. 

Malfoy was leaning against the ramparts, waiting for him. “Incredible, isn’t it?” 

_Think like a Slytherin._

“Yeah,” he said, although he didn’t like to agree with Malfoy on anything, because it seemed like he was agreeing with everything else he did. “It is.” 

_Think like Malfoy._

He forced himself to stand closer to Malfoy than he normally would have done. 

_Maybe that’s too close._

Malfoy glanced at him, but didn’t move. “Have you been anywhere else on this coast?” 

“No.”

_I don’t think so._

“There are Roman walled cities all over this part of the world,” Malfoy said, shading his eyes as he looked out across the rooftops. “Zadar, Split, Kotor, I could go on. In Serbia there is a town like this, but it’s an island.” 

_Respond to what he said._

“You’d like to see them,” he said, because that was what it sounded like. 

Malfoy glanced at him. “Yeah,” he said. 

_Make conversation._

_You need to make him think you’re interested._

“I’ve never heard of any of those places,” he admitted. 

“Well, wizarding Britain is pretty insular,” Malfoy was still looking out at the view. “What’s your endgame with the Servants, Potter?” He asked suddenly. 

“Sorry?”

Malfoy turned to him, leaning one elbow on the ramparts. “What do you want to see happen to them?” 

_Isn’t that obvious?_

_I want them arrested, put on trial and sent to Azkaban for the rest of their lives._

“I’m just thinking of what’s practical given the resources that we have at our disposal,” Malfoy said. “The resources being basically you and me.” 

_Er…_

“This is for Dumbledore’s Army isn’t it?” Malfoy said sharply, as if he already knew. As if he could read it in his face.

He shuffled his feet. 

Malfoy continued. “You want me to set everything up nicely for you, and then you go and hand a victory to Dumbledore’s Army on a plate. You look like the saviour of the day, they can go home as the heroes who rounded up the Death Eaters.” 

_I’m sure they have no leads._

_George said they didn’t._

_Any minute now, Ron is going to come to me ._

_Harry, mate, Ginny’s losing her mind—we don’t know where the Death Eaters are._

_Malfoy didn’t tell you anything about them, did he?_

He shrugged. “That’s basically it.” 

Malfoy pressed two fingers to his temple as if he had a headache. 

_Oh, jesus._

_Malfoy thinks he’s so clever._

_Like I’m this huge idiot who could never outsmart him._

_Well, I’ll show him._

_I’ll show you, Malfoy._

“This is serious, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly. “People’s lives are at stake. I know you don’t care about your _own_ life, but you can’t take that attitude with me and my father if we’re going to help you out here.” 

_I don’t care about my own life?_

“I’m going home,” Malfoy said with a heavy sigh and started walking back to the steep staircase that led down from the tower. 

Normally he would have just ignored this, but he reminded himself that he needed to make Malfoy think that his plan was working. “What’s wrong?” He asked. 

Malfoy glanced at him, but didn’t reply, just continued down the steep staircase.

“Malfoy,” he said. 

Malfoy crossed the first floor of the look out tower and took the final staircase back to the wide stone walkway and continued walking, rather quickly. 

He ran to catch up with him. “Wait,” he said. “What is it?” 

Malfoy looked irritated. “Leave it, Potter.” 

“No,” he said. 

Malfoy stopped and turned on him. “What do you want?” 

_What I want?_

“You want a perfect little future, don’t you? Do you have this vision in your head, of being married to Weasley? Two kids? Ministry job? Quidditch on the weekend? Do you see yourself twenty years from now, putting the children on the Hogwarts Express?”

_That’s a bit rich, coming from you._

_Considering what you did._

“And what’s the price, eh? Who are you willing to sacrifice for this?” Malfoy’s face was deathly white. “Me?” Malfoy crossed his arms and bit his lip. 

_I…_

“You’ll do anything to blind yourself, so you don’t have to see what you don’t like. It’s not going to happen, Potter. You want some advice from me? Forget it now. Reality’s a bitch.” 

Malfoy walked away quickly. 

_Well… shite._

_He’s actually leaving._

_What did I say?_

He watched Malfoy walking away. 

_Hermione, what was that about?_

But Hermione was silent. Was Malfoy going back on his word? Was he not going to lead him to the Death Eaters now? 

Malfoy seemed to be concerned that he wasn’t taking his father’s safety seriously enough. 

_As if I care what happens to Lucius Malfoy._

From that perspective, he supposed Malfoy was right to be concerned. 

 _But how can I_ fake _caring about Lucius Malfoy?_

He just didn’t. Lucius Malfoy was a terrible person. And besides, if Malfoy was really concerned about his father, surely the last person he would ask for help was _Harry Potter_. Malfoy would ask his friends, or…

The thought came to him like lightning out of a clear sky. 

_Malfoy asked me because…_

_He has no-one else to ask._

No. That couldn’t be it. 

_No. That has to be it._

Draco Malfoy was afraid Death Eaters were going to kill his father, and the only person he could ask for help in saving him was Harry Potter. 

_How awful a person do you have to be—_

_If the only person you have to call on in a time of need is your worst enemy?_

He sighed. He had to convince Malfoy he _could_ trust him to keep his word and hold up his end of the bargain, which was to help keep Lucius Malfoy safe while they arrested the Death Eaters. 

_I guess I should have told him about the DA right away._

_But seriously… why would I be honest with Draco Malfoy?_

He scanned the walkway. He assumed Malfoy had stormed off to sulk at home, but after a moment he spotted the familiar silver head of hair by the wall a few hundred yards away. As he got closer, he realised that Malfoy was crouching behind the battlement, very still, apparently watching something that was happening in the street below. 

_What is he looking at?_

He felt gooseflesh go up his neck. 

_It’s the Death Eaters._

When he got to within ten feet of Malfoy, he crouched down as well and peeked over the battlement, but he couldn’t see anything. The city surrounding the walled Old Town was a normal Muggle city with modern streets. All he could see was a normal street with buses and cars crawling along it. 

Malfoy looked back, saw him and silently gestured him to come closer. 

“Closer,” Malfoy whispered, and leaned backward a little so he could see through the gap in the stones where Malfoy had been looking. 

He had to kneel very close to Malfoy, but finally he saw it. 

A flash of spell fire, and the sound of stone bursting into dust. 

_Oh…_

From here he could see the old bridge which led across a dry moat from the new city to the old. A hooded figure in dark robes stood on one side, in a defensive stance, wand pointed across the bridge. 

“Lean forward,” Malfoy whispered. 

He did so, and that was when he saw the long red ponytail, swinging around as Ginny sent another spell at the hooded figure and then dived behind a stone wall. He could feel Malfoy breathing just behind him, feel Malfoy’s body, tense as a bowstring, where Malfoy’s knee was touching his hip. And then the hairs stood up along his neck as warm breath tickled his ear and a whisper as delicate as an insect’s footsteps crept into his ear.

“Step aside.” 

He shifted slightly and Malfoy’s arm insinuated itself between the gap in the stones. Malfoy was pointing his wand through it and staring intently down. He watched as a flash erupted from Malfoy’s wand and hit the hooded figure on the bridge. 

“Got him,” Malfoy muttered. 

“What was it?” He asked. Malfoy hadn’t spoken the words of the spell. 

“ _Petrificus Totalus_ ,” Malfoy muttered. 

Then as they watched, Ginny darted out and sprinted across the bridge toward the prone Death Eater. 

“What is she doing?” Malfoy hissed. 

Ginny crouched down next to the figure, looking around her, wand still raised in a defensive gesture. 

“She’s going to—” He gasped. 

Ginny wrapped one hand around the Death Eater’s robed upper arm and Disapparated. 

Silence descended. No-one seemed to have noticed the battle which had just taken place in broad daylight in a Muggle square. 

He felt Malfoy move away and stand up, and he did the same. 

Malfoy looked at him, his eyes icy silver. “Gosh. That was _smooth_. I think I know who trained _her_.” 

He rubbed the back of his neck. 

Malfoy folded his arms, eyeing him. 

_He needs to believe his plan is working…_

_He’s not buying it. He can tell I don’t like him._

_He can tell I don’t trust him._

He sighed. “I should have said I was planning to tell the DA. ”

Malfoy looked at him for a long time. “I could just leave,” he said. “I could just do a _Petrificus Totalus_ on father, shove him in a sack and hop an illegal Portkey back to England. Hole up in the Manor, lie low until this all blows over.” 

_Do it._

_See what he’s making you do?_

_See how he’s already starting to get his revenge?_

“Please,” he said. “ _Please_ , Malfoy. I really need your help, Malfoy. And I’ll do my best to help you with your dad.” 

He actually thought Malfoy looked surprised. “Al-alright, Potter,” Malfoy stuttered. 

*

He hadn’t thought much about how Snape’s death would have affected Malfoy. 

_I suppose they were close._

_Or at least, Malfoy might have thought he was close to Snape._

_After all, Snape did help him in sixth year._

_He swore that Unbreakable Oath to Narcissa Malfoy._

Malfoy was going to be upset when he found out about Snape’s true allegiance. 

“Alright,” Malfoy said, poking his head out. “The coast is clear. Come in.” 

He went inside. The thick stones the house was made of seemed to keep out the heat. Malfoy locked and bolted the front door. He followed Malfoy into the living room, where Malfoy drew the curtains and knelt in front of the fireplace, starting a fire using his wand. 

“I need to know if Mum has heard anything,” Malfoy said, feeding the fire with pieces of crumpled parchment. 

“Will I hear what she has to say?”

Malfoy glanced at him. “You want to speak to my mother?” 

“I want to hear what the two of you are talking about,” he said pointedly. 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “ _Alright_ …” Malfoy tapped his fingers on the floor. “Wait,” he said. “Are you saying that you’re going to take me with you to Dumbledore’s Army so I can listen to everything you talk about with them?” 

He gaped at Malfoy for a second. 

_Okay, I didn’t think of that…_

“Fine,” he said. “Then why did you bring me here?” 

Malfoy glared. “Because as soon as I’ve spoken to her, we need to decide what we’re going to do when my father gets back.” 

“Fine,” he said again. 

Malfoy placed a number of small pieces of wood on top of the fire, watched it for a moment to ensure it was burning, then reached for a jar which was sitting on the floor nearby. He took a pinch of powder from it and tossed it on the fire, waited until the flames turned green, and then got up on his knees, bent over and went face-first into the fire. 

_Oh my god._

He had been leaning over the back of the sofa, watching Malfoy prepare the Floo connection. But now he turned around quickly and sat down on the sofa facing the other way. He had suddenly remembered when he’d taken Malfoy to make a Firecall at the Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade. He remembered Aberforth and the way his eyes had lingered on Malfoy’s bum. 

_Aberforth was thinking of…_

He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now… He had shown up at the pub, unannounced, having abruptly left all his friends behind and with only Malfoy in tow. 

_What Aberforth must have thought…_

He felt his face getting hot and the familiar discomfort brewing in his stomach.

_Do people think that Malfoy and I are an item?_

He couldn’t believe anyone would think that were true. No-one who knew him would believe it. 

_Or do people think that Malfoy sexually assaulted me?_

Malfoy had used the Imperius curse on Madame Rosmerta. He had given Katie that cursed necklace which seemed to have caused her pain on a par with the Cruciatus curse. Malfoy had even tried to perform the _Cruciatus_ curse on _him_ when they had duelled in Myrtle’s bathroom. 

 _For goodness’ sake, Malfoy tried to assassinate_ Dumbledore _._

Was it really so hard to believe that he would be capable of something like that? 

_Draco Malfoy?_

_Capable of sexual assault?_

_Of rape?_

The very thought was sickening. The very thought that anyone thought that had happened to him was sickening. That was why he couldn’t bear to ask anyone about it. Even _Ron_ hadn’t been able to talk about it. 

_I know Malfoy couldn’t do it._

_But that doesn’t mean other people think the same._

Just the fact that Malfoy was now taking it to another level—actually trying to seduce him, or whatever—just to get revenge, well, it really was one of the sickest things he’d ever heard. 

_I shouldn’t be here._

_I should call this whole thing off._

_I don’t even want revenge._

_I just want to get away from him._

_But Harry_ , Hermione’s voice was there in his head again. _You haven’t considered the other possibility._

_What possibility?_

_Harry, he_ told _you he had feelings for you._

 _He_ told _you that what he said to Myrtle was a private confession._

 _He_ told _you that Peeves had it in for him and wanted to spread rumours._

He frowned. _What are you trying to say, Hermione?_

_I’m saying, maybe those rumours were made up by other people. People with a vested interest in how you and he are perceived._

_I’m saying, Harry, maybe he really does have feelings for you._

He shook his head. _Alright, Hermione. That’s quite enough now._

_Think about it, Harry—_

_No, I don’t think I will, actually._

He turned around to glance at Malfoy, which he immediately regretted. Malfoy was still in the fire, which was what he wanted to check. But it meant he also got an eyeful of Malfoy’s bum, which was _not_ what he intended to do at all. 

He stood up and left the room, looking for the toilet. He just needed to get away from Malfoy for a moment. There was a cloakroom off the kitchen and he locked the door and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. 

_What does it matter anyway?_

_Who cares?_

_Why would you care if Malfoy had feelings for you?_

_You didn’t care yesterday._

No, he didn’t care. Not one bit. Malfoy could fancy him all he wanted. It didn’t matter to _him_. 

 _It’s none of_ my _business._

_Absolutely nothing to do with me._

In fact, he had a mind to prove it to himself. In his pocket he still had the small glass vial which Malfoy had given him with the memories. Malfoy had said they were his memories of what, exactly, he had said to Moaning Myrtle which had started this whole thing off. 

_I’m going to watch this._

_And just see how much I care._

_You’ll see—not at all._

It was a very small glass vial, with a tiny cork in the mouth of the bottle stopping the shimmery thoughts from slipping out. He held up his hand, uncorked it and poured the thoughts into his palm. 

_You just need skin contact, right?_

_Oh—!_

With a lurching sensation, he found himself tumbling into Moaning Myrtle’s toilet, just as it had always been, and drawn steadily toward the closed door of one of the stalls. He passed through the door like a ghost and found himself locked in a toilet stall with Malfoy and Moaning Myrtle. 

_Not exactly my dream dinner party._

Malfoy was sitting cross-legged on the closed lid of the toilet, leaning back against the wall and smoking a pipe. Myrtle was floating in the upper corner of the stall, bobbing slightly up and down as if she were in the ocean.

Neither of them paid him the slightest notice. 

“This is what he did to me,” Malfoy said. “Look _._ ” 

Malfoy placed the pipe carefully on the loo roll dispenser and then started unbuttoning the high neck of his robes. He looked terrible. The whites of his eyes were completely bloodshot and there were deep circles under his eyes. His hair was greasy and pulled back behind his head in a scraggly bunch.

 _Oh—what are you doing?_ Myrtle asked, giggling. She sounded like she was rather looking forward to seeing.

He couldn’t help taking a step forward to look closer. Malfoy had unbuttoned his robes almost to the navel, and he could see that the scar covered the entire space between there and his neck. It looked like a sunburst made of slashes, like his heart had burst its way out of his chest. 

_Oh my god._

Above him, Myrtle “Harry Potter… did that? That is revolting.”

“Fine,” Malfoy snapped, sounding offended, and pulled his robes closed again. 

“Oh no, let me look again. Didn’t they give you dittany?” Myrtle had floated down in front of Malfoy and was having a good old look at the scar.

“Yeah,” Malfoy said harshly. “They gave me dittany. But the curse was so severe, the dittany didn’t do any good.”

“Oh my goodness,” Myrtle breathed

“Actually,” Malfoy said, his voice going distant. “That’s not completely true.”

He couldn’t stop looking at the scar. It was enormous. He couldn’t believe he had done that much damage. 

“I didn’t take the dittany,” Malfoy said. 

 _What?_ Myrtle gasped. 

Malfoy picked up the pipe again and took a long drag before sending the smoke toward the ceiling. Then he said, his voice hard, growling. “I wanted to be able to show everyone exactly what Harry Potter did to me. So no-one can ever say again that he’s so brave and noble and good. This the evidence to prove that lie.” 

“Oh,” Moaning Myrtle simpered, “But Harry Potter is good. And he’s fit… oh, he’s lovely…”

“Myrtle,” Malfoy’s voice had changed completely. The pipe fell from his fingers to the floor. He drew his legs up and hunched over, spoke to his knees. “I can’t stop thinking about Harry Potter. All the time, I’m thinking about him. It’s driving me mad!”

“Oh dear…” Myrtle bobbed even closer to Malfoy, “Do you want to get revenge for him giving you that scar? Are you going to… hurt him?” Far from sympathetic, Myrtle sounded quite excited by the prospect.

Unable to help himself, he crept even closer to Malfoy 

“No,” Malfoy raised his head. “I want—I want him to tell me to fuck him.” 

He froze on the spot, barely hearing Myrtle’s cry of shock in response. 

“I want to take him in the Quidditch showers,” Malfoy was talking fast, like he needed to get the words out. “I want to push him up against the tiles. I want him to say my name and—and beg me for more.”

Myrtle was mumbling away, bobbing in the air in front of Malfoy. He was just frozen in place, unable to do anything else but stare at Malfoy. The words seemed to be ringing through his head, ringing out across the universe.

"I’d fuck him so hard he’d forget his own name,” Malfoy gasped. And then Malfoy laid his face in his hands and sobbed, “I fancy him. I fancy Harry Potter.”

 He found himself sitting on the closed toilet seat in the cloakroom in Malfoy’s house in Dubrovnik. 

The memory was over. 

And now he knew how Malfoy really felt about him. 


	74. Massacre

**Draco**

“Mum,” he shouted into the empty study. “Mum!”   
****

_Is Potter staring at my arse?_

This was why he hated Firecalls. It made one feel so vulnerable. He knew that old lech from the Hog’s Head had been peeking at him when he’d made that Firecall the other day, before Dumbledore’s Army had swooped on him and Potter. 

_Eurgh._

_That lechy old goat-fucker._

_I could be sick._

“Mu-um!” He shouted again. 

_Wizard communications are so inefficient._

_It’s frankly laughable._

“Master Draco,” Snithy appeared with a bow. 

“Oh thank Hecate,” he muttered. “Smithy, get Mummy, would you?” 

“Draco?” His mother’s voice floated in the door of the study. 

“Yes, Mum,” he shouted back. “Hi.” 

She came through the door of the study with the baby strapped to her in a sling. She knelt down in front of the fire. “I didn’t dare try to contact you.” 

He felt guilty. He should have owled her. “I’m with Father,” he said. 

Her eyes widened. “Why?” 

But he’d had the whole walk back from the city walls to think of a story and he was prepared. “Dumbledore’s Army are in Dubrovnik,” he began. 

“Yes,” she said, “I know that—”

“Mum, just let me talk!” He snapped, annoyed at the interruption. She was one of the world’s worst listeners. 

_No._

_She’s a great listener._

_To other people._

_Just not me._

“Potter and Weasley are not getting along,” he explained. “Potter has not been accepted into Dumbledore’s Army. They’re still not happy with him. And having me in tow doesn’t really help his case.” 

“Oh, _Draco_!” She hissed. 

White-hot anger ripped through him. He had a great story if she would just _listen_ and not constantly remind him of his earlier failings. 

_I could be what you want me to be._

_I could._

_But you never give me a chance._

_You just see me as this big failure who can’t do anything._

“Mum, stop!” He barked, so loudly that the baby woke up and started crying. 

She didn’t say anything to him, just got up and started walking the baby around the room to calm it down. 

_Just stay calm._

_You’re control now and you_ have _a plan._

She walked back over and looked down at him, still bouncing the baby, who had stopped crying. 

“Dumbledore’s Army are pursuing the escaped Servants,” he said. 

“I know,” she interrupted. He almost exploded with frustration. 

“And they have no intelligence,” he continued. He was just going to keep talking over her if she interrupted him again. “They are desperate for information. And Potter is the only one with any connections to the Dark, that is, yours truly. So we came up with this idea, we will work together—”

“Draco—”

“Mum,” he burst out. “Would you _please_ stop interrupting me? I _know_ I didn’t get into Gryffindor and I _know_ I joined the Servants and everything else I did to disappoint you but I _am_ trying and I _am_ going to keep Father safe, if you would just let me explain my plan—”

He fell silent. 

_Oh._

_Oh…my…Hecate…_

“I have faith in your abilities, Draco,” she said, and her tone was not dry or sarcastic. He almost wished it was, because that would mean the news wasn’t so bad. “I was shocked because I know John trained you to always keep up with current events, and yet you clearly haven’t picked up a newspaper in the past three days.” She was holding up a copy of the Daily Prophet.

“Why—” he choked. “Why didn’t we find out about this the day after the battle?”

“Because there was no Daily Prophet the morning of Riddle’s death,” his mother said. “But there was the day after.” 

He was staring at the newspaper. The headline read: 

_YOU-KNOW-WHO DEAD BUT DOZENS SLAIN IN HOGWARTS SCHOOL MASSACRE_

She tossed it aside. “This was yesterday,” she said. 

_HARRY POTTER LED YOU-KNOW-WHO TO HOGWARTS SCHOOL, SAY WITNESSES_

She reached over to her desk. “Today.” 

_MINISTER FOR MAGIC SHACKLEBOLT ISSUES ARREST WARRANT FOR HARRY POTTER_

“Oh Hecate,” he breathed.

“You told me you were taking Harry to the Weasleys’,” she said. “Clearly you were lying. What on earth do you have to say for yourself?” 

_Fuck._

“I tried to convince Potter to go,” he said, thinking as fast as he could. “But he had another argument with the Weasley siblings immediately after we left the Manor, in which they informed him that _they_ were planning to start hunting Servants as well. So I agreed to bring him here.” He shrugged. “Dad arrived not long after.”

She stood up and started walking the baby around again. “And you’re telling me,” she said. “That Harry is still at loggerheads with Dumbledore’s Army?” 

He nodded, slowly. 

_This is bad._

It was sinking in now, how bad it was. 

She walked over and, bending down with difficulty because of the baby, gathered up the Prophets and handed them to him. “Read these carefully,” she said. 

He took them, but realised he had nowhere to put them. His t-shirt was far too snug to allow him to smuggle a sheaf of newspapers down it. 

_I can’t let Potter see these._

_I can’t!_

Potter was going to go spare. 

_This could destroy him._

“Mum,” he said, finally. He couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Potter hasn’t been well.”

She glanced at him sharply. “Spell damage?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I think it might just be…”

“What magic did he use to slay Riddle?” She asked. “You _must_ get him to tell you.” 

“I really don’t think he has spell damage,” he said. “I think he’s been thinking about a lot of stuff that happened to him when he was a child.” 

His mother froze, her arms around the baby in his sling. 

“I think he went through some kind of trauma,” he said. “And going through that death and rebirth he had in the forest reminded him of it.”

She looked down at the baby, rocking him gently. 

“Pet is here.” 

She stopped rocking the baby. 

“I read the _Romance of Pet and Nara_.”

She stood still for quite some time, just gazing down at the baby.

And then she finally said, her dark eyes looking at him with absolutely no emotion whatsoever, “Clearly you’ve been frittering away your time. You won’t find a decent emotional Healer in Dubrovnik now, no-one has moved back to the city yet. You’ll just have to get Harry through it as best you can. There is a small potions cupboard behind the dry goods pantry. Just feel for a false back on the shelf with the tinned soup. Use them sparingly but as needed.” 

“But—Mummy—”

“Get your father and Harry out of there in one piece, Draco,” she said. Her voice sounded terribly weary. “Do you think you can manage that? There’s nothing more I can do for you at this time.” 

He stared back at her. 

_Right._

_Just get them out of here in one piece._

_Easy as._

“She’s divorced,” he said. “Pet. She’s not married to the Muggle any longer.” 

He saw Mum’s eyes widen and heard her gasp out loud. 

But he was already leaving. He pulled back and sat up, Mum’s study disappearing and the world lurching horribly as his body re-oriented itself, and then he was back in the small stone house in Dubrovnik, coughing from cinders, and looking around for Potter, who was nowhere to be seen. 

“Potter?” He stood up, panicking suddenly. “Potter!” 

What if Potter had gone? 

What if he’d gone back to them? 

_Dumbledore’s Army will arrest him on sight._

“Yeah?” Potter strolled casually into the room. 

_Oh Hecate._

_Oh, thank Hecate._

He quickly hid the Prophets behind his back. 

Potter eyed him strangely. “What’s that?” 

“Nothing,” 

Potter came toward him. “Malfoy, what is it?” 

He backed away. “It’s nothing, Potter, really.” 

Potter came toward him. 

He was seized by the hysterical desire to laugh. 

_Shit._

His hands hit stone. He had backed up right against the wall. 

_Oh, Hecate._

Potter was advancing on him. Potter’s eyes seemed to bore into his until he felt hypnotised. 

_Oh Hecate Potter._

Potter lunged. 

He dived. 

He managed to switch the papers to his front and clutched them with both arms as he sailed over the back of the sofa, bounced and rolled off it, narrowly avoided the coffee table and bounded onto the opposite sofa, only to fall back as Potter managed to catch hold of the back of his t-shirt and yanked him backward. He fell, Potter pushed him backward onto the sofa. He stuffed the newspapers under his shirt in desperation. Potter climbed on top of him and started trying to get the newspapers out of his t-shirt while he was holding them in. 

“No,” he gasped. “Potter, I’m serious—” He had his hands clutched around his midriff, holding his t-shirt down with all his strength. 

Potter had gotten hold of a Prophet. It tore off in his hand and he ended up with just a tiny corner. He stared at it, confused, for half a second. 

The expression on Potter’s face was so confused that he laughed. 

Potter glared at him in outrage, but that second of laughter was just enough time for his hands to relax ever so slightly on his midriff, and Potter with lightning reflexes shoved his hands under his t-shirt and yanked out the entire sheaf of papers. 

_Fuck!_

He tried to grab them, but Potter moved them away, then overbalanced, fell off the sofa and toppled onto the floor. He followed, grabbing the sheaf of papers with own two hands and trying to wrestle it away from Potter. He got one leg over Potter’s hip and had Potter at a disadvantage, managed to press the newspapers back onto the floor above Potter’s head and hold them there. 

Potter tried to move, to gain purchase and shift him off, but it was useless. Potter writhed underneath him, frustrated, angry, his chest heaving. At that point he realised that he had Potter’s hips pinned to the floor with his own body weight, his chest was practically touching Potter’s and he had Potter’s arms pinned above his head. And he was looking into Potter’s eyes. 

_Oh…_

_my…_

_Hecate…_

His deep green emerald eyes. 

_What in Hecate’s name am I doing?_

He immediately rolled off, embarrassment washing over him. 

Potter sat up, slowly, glanced at him, and then put the papers on the floor in front of him. The last headline had ended up on top. 

_MINISTER FOR MAGIC SHACKLEBOLT ISSUES ARREST WARRANT FOR HARRY POTTER_

Potter stared at it for a long moment, then looked at him. “Is this some kind of joke?” Potter lifted the top issue off to look at the one below. 

_I can’t watch._

_Oh._

_Hecate._

* 

“Darling! I’m home…” Father’s voice rang through the house. 

He was sitting on the sofa, twirling the empty glass vial between his fingers. 

Father leaned over the back of the sofa and hugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry, dragon,” he whispered. “Sorry about what I said this morning.”

“It’s okay,” he said.

“No,” Father said, “I shouldn’t have said it. I love you, dragon.” 

“Love you too, Father,” he said back. 

Father kissed the top of his head. “Is he here?” 

He nodded. “He’s upstairs.” 

“Is he staying here?”

_I don’t know._

He shrugged. 

Father came around and sat down next to him on the sofa and put his arms around him. “I guess you made up, then?”

He shrugged. 

“Do you want me to stay somewhere else tonight?” Father whispered. “So you can have some priva—”

“Dad!” He hissed. “Shut up!” He pushed his arms away. 

Dad grinned. “Am I embarrassing you now?” 

He scowled. “He might come back.” 

_I’m not a baby._

He hardly wanted Potter to see him being cuddled like a child. He heard footsteps on the stairs and pointed at Father as if to say, _Behave._

Potter must have heard Father’s voice. 

His heart started pounding. 

Today on the wall he had been so ready to leave. He had stood there on the top of the look out tower, thinking,

_Does Potter even care if I live or die?_

He knew Potter was doing this to leverage his position with Dumbledore’s Army, but the fact Potter wouldn’t _admit_ it until pushed just drove home the scale of the risks Potter was willing to take. 

_Potter doesn’t care about his own life._

_That much is clear._

But it was the fact that Potter didn’t seem to care about anyone else’s, either. And that Potter was doing this because he wanted a perfect Gryffindor happily-ever-after with Weasley. He could taste the jealousy like bile in his throat, thick and bitter. 

_Why should I do this?_

_Why should I stick my neck out for you?_

_You don’t give a Knut what happens to me._

He’d thought about forcibly taking Father back to England. He could incapacitate Father while he slept. Mum had the connections to arrange a Portkey. They could have found a way to keep Father under lock and key in the Manor and close the wards again, wait until the dust settled in the world outside. 

_No… I can’t._

He’d told Potter he wanted revenge on the Death Eaters, and he did, to a certain extent. But that wasn’t the reason he was still here. 

_Potter…_

When he’d incurred the life debt to Potter, he had done it because Sir told him to, and he had been able to see the wisdom of a life debt as a way to tie him to Potter. But he hadn’t really taken it that seriously. 

_I opted out of ancient chivalry some time ago._

_Doesn’t move me._

But today he had sworn an oath to himself, as he stood on the city wall of Dubrovnik in the afternoon sun, looking at Potter. He had sworn to stick by Potter. 

_If he won’t protect his own life,_

_I will._

_I’ll protect you, Potter._

Father turned his head and he followed the movement. Potter was standing there at the foot of the stairs, his arms folded, wand laid across his forearm, staring at the two of them. 

_Oh… Hecate._

He needed to say something before Father did. Because Hecate only knew what was going to come out of Father’s mouth if he let him speak now. 

“Alright?” He asked, then immediately mentally smacked his forehead. 

_He doesn’t want to be asked how he is._

_He’s—he’s upset._

Potter didn’t reply. 

He could see Father out of the corner of his eye, giving him a look that said, _What’s_ his _problem?_

“I’m leaving,” Potter said. 

But Potter didn’t go anywhere. 

He looked at Potter. 

_Oh, Hecate._

By rights, Potter shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be in a house owned by the Malfoys. He should be off doing deeds of great daring. 

_He has no-one._

_And he’s scared._

He knew Potter didn’t trust him. Potter didn’t even like him. And yet Potter was still here.

He stood up. “I’ll come with you.” Potter tried to protest, but he held up his hand. “You need back up.” He stood next to Potter.

Potter didn’t say anything.

He glared a warning at Father not to say anything. He could just see that Father was dying to burst out, _Oh, how sweet_!

“Father,” he said. “Dumbledore’s Army have been skirmishing with Servants in the streets of Dubrovnik. We saw them take a Servant hostage.” 

Father quirked one eyebrow, leaning over the back of the sofa and looking at them. 

“Dad,” he said suddenly, detecting a sheepish look on his face. “What did you do?” 

Father raised his hands in defence. “All I did was inform Carrow that his favourite Hogwarts students had taken up residence in the city.” 

Potter stiffened beside him, but otherwise did nothing. 

He frowned. “How did you know they were here?” 

Father traced the pattern of the sofa upholstery with one finger. “Ministry wages haven’t been paid in months. One of the Keysmiths was known to take on outside work. Antonin Dolohov must have had a Portkey prepared in case he needed to make a hasty exit. You know he has that absurd manse on the hill there. He took most of the extant Servants with him.” 

_Oh…_

It was starting to make sense now.

“So once the Port was open, the Keysmith saw a chance to make some quick gold on anyone trying to leave Britain?” 

Father smirked. “You see, Harry, how clever my son is. You’ve chosen wisely.” 

_Oh my Hecate_

_I can’t believe he just said that._

Potter jerked as if he’d been given an electric shock, but remained silent, staring ahead and not making eye contact with either of them. 

He glared at Father, who continued speaking blithely as if nothing had happened. “Yes, darling. By the time I got there, the Light had already gone through. It only cost me a little more to find out who had used it before me…” He trailed off. “And that is why I was surprised that _you_ were here, darling.” 

“Well,” he said. “We took, er, Muggle transport.” 

“Eurgh!” Father gasped. “How awful. I don’t know how you and your mother do it.” 

“ _Anyway_ ,” he said, trying to get Father back on subject. “You said you told Carrow…”

“Well,” Father said. “Now they’re all running around like headless Hippogryffs, chasing those children through the streets. It’s going to make it _much_ easier for me to pick them off one by one.” 

He glanced at Potter, who said nothing. 

“Father,” he said. “Just let me and Potter go and investigate first. Alright? Just stay here for now.” 

Father smiled. “Alright, darling.” 

He felt distinctly uncomfortable. 

_He knows Mum wants me to get him out of here as soon as possible._

There was something Father wasn’t telling him. 

_He’s lying._

Father would _never_ do anything to endanger him, he knew that. That could only mean one thing. 

_He’s going to do something._

_Something reckless._

_Something that will endanger himself._

_That’s why Father has been trying to get me out of here._

_He doesn’t want me to find out what he’s really up to._

_That’s why he hasn’t told me anything about what he’s been doing._

He didn’t want to leave Father alone. He wanted to grab him and take a Portkey back to England and lock him in the Manor to make sure he could never, ever be hurt.

He glanced at Potter. 

_Do I have to choose between them?_

_Is that what it comes down to?_

Potter had promised to help him keep Father safe. 

_He promised._

He was going to find out if Potter was a man of his word after all. 


	75. Slytherins

**Harry**

He wished he had his invisibility cloak. As it was, they had to make do with the deep shadow and a couple of charms Malfoy had done to make them less noticeable. 

They were on the roof of a hotel across the street and opposite the new headquarters of Dumbledore’s Army. 

“It’s been an hour,” Malfoy whispered. “Maybe we should get a room. Then at least one of us can get some sleep. We can take turns.”

He didn’t feel like talking, especially to Malfoy. 

“Potter,” Malfoy said. “You’re nodding off. You’re barely keeping awake.” 

_I didn’t sleep much last night._

He stood up without replying and started picking his way over chimney pots and air-conditioning units, back toward the door where they had entered the roof. Malfoy followed him inside and closed the door quietly. They were on the landing of a flight of plain, utilitarian stairs leading down to the top floor of the hotel. He followed them down and through the door into the hotel proper, which was much more luxurious. The door was clearly not intended to be accessible by guests, but had unlocked with a quick _Alohomora_. 

Malfoy got into the lift and waited for him. He got in, Malfoy pressed the button for the ground floor and the doors closed. 

_Being in an enclosed space with Malfoy._

_Not exactly my idea of fun._

The doors of the lift were mirrored gold and he could see both their reflections. 

“Potter,” Malfoy whispered. His reflection was spare and angular, dressed all in tight-fitting black clothes, silver hair falling over his eye. “Are you alright?”

He crossed his arms and looked away. His reflection taunted him, sulky and obstinate, distant and angry. 

The lift doors opened onto the lobby, which was mostly smooth white marble. Malfoy approached the reception and started speaking to the Muggle on duty. He stood near the lifts. If Malfoy was going to get a room, they would just be going up again anyway. 

Ron’s words from last night had been repeating in his mind over and over again.

_I wish we had worked with them, Harry_

He had replied, _I_ did _kill Voldemort. Everyone seems to be acting as if I did everything wrong. But I_ did _what I was supposed to do._

_But the way it happened…and…_

Had Ron meant, the way the Battle of Hogwarts happened? 

_Never mind, Harry. Like you said, it’s in the past now._

_But the way it happened…and…_

What did Ron mean, the way the Battle of Hogwarts happened? 

He became aware that Malfoy was back by his side, pressing the Up button on the lift. “Got it,” Malfoy said. 

He followed Malfoy back into the lift and the doors closed again. The reflections were taunting him again. It looked strange when they stood next to each other because his hair was jet black, while Malfoy’s was salt white. Malfoy noticed him looking at him, but looked away. 

The doors opened again and he followed Malfoy down a quiet, carpeted corridor with low lights. “308,” Malfoy said, stopping in front of a door, putting the key in the lock and turning it. He went inside and sat down on the bed. 

Malfoy closed and locked the door. “They, er,” he said, coming into the room. “They didn’t have any twin rooms… I asked…”

He lay down on the bed. 

_I could just go to sleep._

_Maybe when I wake up, this will all have been a bad dream._

Malfoy started rearranging the furniture by the window. “I’ll take the first watch,” he said. “So you can sleep.” 

“Why were you talking to Moaning Myrtle?” He asked, facing away from Malfoy and staring at the brocade wallpaper. 

Malfoy was silent. Then he felt the bed dip on the far side. Malfoy had sat down. “She listened,” he said. 

“Why didn’t you talk to your friends?” 

Malfoy said, very quietly, “I don’t have any friends.” 

“What about Crabbe and Goyle?” 

Malfoy said, even more quietly, “They’re not my friends.” 

He turned around to look at Malfoy, who was perched on the edge of the bed, one hand on the gold counterpane. “Then why are they always around you?” 

Malfoy looked down at the bedspread. “After I… joined Riddle.” Malfoy swallowed. “They took it upon themselves to act as a kind of… guard.” 

“To protect you?” He frowned. 

“No,” Malfoy said. “To protect other students.” 

He rolled onto his back and propped himself on his elbows. “You mean other Slytherins?”

Malfoy nodded. 

“Why?” 

Malfoy frowned. “Why, in case I tried to recruit them, of course.” 

_Oh._

_Oh…_

“Ron told me that a lot of Slytherins defected,” he said. “They went to other houses.” 

Malfoy nodded. 

“Did that make you angry?” 

“Not at all,” Malfoy said quietly. He was playing with the torn knee of his black jeans. 

_See?_

_Even when other Slytherins refused to join Voldemort, and even defected from Slytherin, Malfoy didn’t._

_Malfoy is not good._

_He’s bad. He’s rotten to the core._

_I can’t believe I’m in a hotel room with a Death Eater._

“So you made friends with a ghost?” He asked. 

Malfoy glanced at him. “I would get high and tell her my problems.” He was pulling threads out of his jeans and laying them on the bedspread. “She would tell me creepy stories of people she had spied on. I wouldn’t call it a friendship.”

“So why did you do it?” 

“I needed someone to talk to,” Malfoy said, his voice barely audible. “Didn’t you ever just… need someone to talk to?” 

He turned over on his side so he wasn’t facing Malfoy any more. “Ron didn’t tell me,” he said. “He didn’t tell me they think it’s my fault. They think it’s my fault so many people died in the Battle of Hogwarts.” He curled in on himself, curled his hands under his chin. “They think I started the Battle of Hogwarts.” 

Malfoy didn’t say anything, but he could feel his presence, dipping the bed down on the opposite side. 

“They aren’t even calling it the Battle of Hogwarts. They’re calling it the Hogwarts School Massacre. I didn’t read the articles all the way through,” he said. “Hermione always used to read the whole articles. She used to read the whole paper for me.” 

“I’ll read them,” Malfoy said. “I’ll read them through for you.” 

“Okay,” he said.

“I brought them with me,” Malfoy said. “I’ll read them. You can sleep.” 

_Okay._

He closed his eyes. 

_I hope this is another nightmare._

_I just hope that it is._

*

When he woke up, it was light. He was still lying on top of the counterpane, but someone had thrown a blanket over him. 

_When I became Harry Potter, I decided that Auntie was wrong._

_And the special people were right._

_That Hagrid was right._

_Dumbledore was right._

For the first time since he was eleven, he wondered if he had made the right decision. Maybe he should have stayed in the Muggle world. Life would have been a lot easier with Dudley away at school. Auntie would have been much happier and there would have been much less tension in the house. Uncle Vernon would have been more relaxed without the constant fighting between him and Dudley. 

_But you were erased._

_Everyone forgot who you were._

_You couldn’t go to school._

But he could have studied at home. Auntie could have brought him books from the library. Eventually he would have been able to start again. He could have started a new life, with a new identity. 

_Hermione did it._

_She created a new identity._

He would have become Harry Potter after all, but a Muggle Harry Potter.

_What are you talking about?_

_You hate the Dursleys._

_You hate Aunt Petunia._

_You’re a wizard._

_You belong in the wizarding world._

He sat up. Malfoy was sitting in an armchair by the window, with his legs up on a footrest. 

_Is he asleep?_

_Some lookout._

“Malfoy,” he said sharply. 

Malfoy turned his head. “Good morning to you, too.” 

“Anything?” 

“Don’t you think I would have woken you?” Malfoy stretched. 

“ _Nothing_?” 

“Not a Bertie Bott’s bean,” Malfoy yawned. “No-one came, no-one went. Crickets.” Malfoy got up from the chair and picked up the telephone which sat on the bedside table next to the bed. Then, to his complete surprise, Malfoy started speaking in Croatian. 

_Malfoy speaks Croatian?_

Malfoy put the phone down, went over to a desk that sat on the other side of the room and started rummaging among the papers on the top. Then he went back to the phone, carrying a piece of white card, and carried on talking. “Potter,” he interrupted himself. “What do you want for breakfast?” 

“Dunno.” 

“Continental? Muesli? Eggs?” Malfoy trailed off. 

“Cooked?” 

Malfoy looked at him disdainfully. “Hecate, you’re such a tourist, Potter. No, they don’t have a cooked breakfast.” 

He scowled. “Scrambled,” he said. “With white toast.” 

Malfoy turned back to the phone and continued talking. 

_He can’t be saying all that just to order breakfast._

_What is he saying?_

Malfoy laughed. 

_He’s chatting._

_He’s definitely chatting._

_What is he_ talking _about?_

Malfoy finally hung up, then glanced at him. “What?” 

“How come you speak Croatian?” 

Malfoy tossed his hair over his shoulder and shifted so he was facing him a little more. “Languages are useful,” he shrugged. 

“Do you speak any other languages?” 

Malfoy looked at him in mild surprise. “French, my German is so-so. I started Russian since I figured I have one Slavic language already…” 

“You didn’t learn them at Hogwarts.” 

“Quick on the uptake, aren’t you?” Malfoy cocked his head to one side. The morning light was soft on his hair and eyes. 

“Why does your family have a house here?” 

Malfoy frowned, his forehead knitting together delicately. “So we had somewhere to stay in the summer.” 

“You used to come here in the summer?” 

Malfoy shook his head. “Yes. I told you that **.** ” 

“I don’t remember that.” 

“I think you may have been stoned out of your mind at the time,” Malfoy said, his lip curling evilly. 

“You’re one to talk,” he shot back. 

Malfoy’s smirk deepened. “Indeed,” he said. Malfoy’s eyes were silver, with just the hint of a darker silver ring around the iris. His eyelashes were long, and they were dark, unlike all the rest of his hair. 

After a moment Malfoy dropped his gaze and got up, walked over to the window and looked out. 

_Harry, mate._

_What were you doing just now?_

_Ron, give it a rest._

_Were you looking into Malfoy’s eyes?_

_I can do whatever I want, Ron._

_Don’t try and tell me what to do after what you did._

The image flashed through his mind of Malfoy hunched over in Moaning Myrtle’s toilets, crying his eyes out. 

_I fancy him._

_I fancy Harry Potter._

Why did people who liked him always burst into tears? He hadn’t seen this happen to anyone else. Viktor Krum didn’t come over all weepy when he was near Hermione. 

“Did you fancy Cedric Diggory?”

Malfoy turned around slowly. “ _Sorry_?”

He copied Malfoy’s smirk. “You heard me.” 

Malfoy walked carefully back to the bed and perched on the far corner. “What, are you studying me for your Mastermind expert subject?” 

He raised his eyebrows. “I haven’t forgotten the _Potter Stinks_ campaign.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “So I thought he was fit, along with everyone else at school. So sue me.” 

“Is that why you were crying?” He asked. 

Malfoy obviously immediately understood what he was referring to, because he went white and drew back, as if in shock. 

“My first girlfriend—” he said quickly. “Cho Chang. She used to cry when we—er. Because of Cedric.” 

Malfoy stared at him for a long second, and then burst into hysterical laughter. 

“Malfoy,” he snapped. “It’s not funny.” 

Malfoy collapsed face-first on the bed, his torso shaking. 

“We only kissed,” he said quickly. “Jesus, Malfoy, I was in fifth year.”

This only made Malfoy laugh harder. 

Malfoy got up on his elbows. “Oh, Hecate, Potter,” he said, his eyes streaming. “May Cedric Diggory’s spirit rest, but you really do have a way with women, don’t you?” 

The doorbell rang. “Breakfast,” Malfoy said, and got up. “I’ll get it.” 

“And what would you know about it,” he snapped, rather annoyed now, actually. 

He’s _telling me about women?_

_That’s just ridiculous._

A member of the hotel staff came in with a large tray, which Malfoy, speaking in Croatian now, directed her to place on the desk. She did so, and then they started chatting away right there in the middle of the hotel room. He started to feel rather annoyed. 

_I’m right here, actually._

Eventually Malfoy showed the woman out, and then came back and started drinking his coffee, standing by the desk. 

“Seriously, Malfoy,” he said. “What would _you_ know about girls?” 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “I’m bisexual.” 

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Malfoy looked at his coffee. “It’s more of a Muggle term, I guess. We don’t really use these words in the wizarding world.” Malfoy looked at him. “It just means I like men and women.” 

He frowned. “But you’re…” he gestured toward Malfoy. 

He didn’t understand how Malfoy could like girls when he was so…

_Isn’t that… not how it works?_

Malfoy put his coffee down. “I’m not masculine enough to be able to like women, is that it?” 

He shrugged. “ _I_ don’t know. I don’t know anything about this. No-one ever talked about this at Hogwarts. Not in Gryffindor, at least.” 

“Homophobia,” Malfoy muttered. “Another wonderful import from the Muggle world.” 

He frowned. “What’s homophobia?” 

Malfoy sighed. “It’s what you just said. That no-one ever talked about this at Hogwarts. That no-one ever talked about the fact that two men or two women can be a couple.” 

_Hrm._

He’d never thought about it like that. To be honest, he hadn’t thought about it at all, probably ever. 

 _Though Dudley did once accuse me_ _of going out with Cedric Diggory._

“So you do like girls.” 

“Yes, Potter,” Malfoy sighed. “I do.” 

“Pansy Parkinson?” 

Malfoy smirked. “Watch out. Millicent Bullstrode is the jealous type.” 

“They’re…?”

“Oh, they’ve been together for years,” Malfoy said. “I mean, third year? But you know… these things are kept quiet.” 

“Crabbe and Goyle?” 

Malfoy chuckled. “Since fourth year. You know, Vince and Greg even went to the Yule Ball together and the rest of the school just thought they couldn’t find dates.” 

He frowned. “Hold on a second, Malfoy. You’re saying there are all of these…people…”

One of Malfoy’s elbows travelled quite far up his forehead. “You mean _gay people_?”

“Er—yeah,” he muttered. “I mean, this stuff never even came up at Hogwarts. Girls liked boys. Boys liked girls. That’s it. I mean—now you’re saying half of our year in Slytherin…”

Malfoy looked at the ceiling. “Pretty much,” he said. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

“But _why_? It doesn’t make any _sense._ ”

“Potter, how do you _think_ they all ended up in Slytherin?” 

He shook his head. “Are you saying gay people are all really devious and cunning?” 

Malfoy looked at him, his arms crossed. “Slytherin is a dumping ground for people who don’t quite _fit._ People who aren’t going to play along with the status quo. People who aren’t going to obey the unspoken rules. People who are going to go against the grain. And one quality which _definitely_ makes you _not fit_ at Hogwarts is being queer.” 

_The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin._

“Malfoy,” he said harshly. “That stuff you smoke must have killed off quite a bit of your brain because that is a really fucking stupid thing to say.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened in outrage. “So you think I was quite clever,” he snapped. “Thanks for the compliment.” 

“No,” he said. “What you just said is dangerous. You’re saying that Slytherins aren’t really _evil_ , they’re just, what— _different_ and they can’t help it? So they shouldn’t be held responsible for what they do?”

Malfoy gaped at him. “ _Slytherins aren’t really evil_? Can you hear yourself?” 

He crossed his arms. “Yeah, I hear myself perfectly.”

“You decide a bunch of children are _evil—_ just like that, _evil_ —and the solution is to put them all together and leave it at that. Is that how you see it?”

He nodded slowly. “Well, ambition, cunning, deviousness, they’re those things as well.” 

Malfoy sat down on the bed and leaned toward him earnestly. “Can’t you see how this is _scapegoating_? Slytherins are always the first to be suspected and the first to be blamed. If there’s a problem, just blame it on Slytherin and wash your hands of it.” 

He stared at Malfoy. “There _is_ a problem. Slytherins are…okay, there may have been a few exceptions but by and large, Slytherins are _not nice people._ ” 

Malfoy stared back at him. “If there is a problem, why don’t they try to fix it? Isn’t that the height of negligence, to ‘know’ there’s a problem and not only accept it, but use it an excuse when things go wrong and people get hurt?” Malfoy came closer, so he was sitting next to him on the bed. “It’s a con, Potter, the whole thing. The whole system is rigged to set people up for certain—certain roles. Some people are good. Some people are bad. And labelling non-conformists and certain… undesirables… as evil or wrong is a fantastic way to marginalise them.” 

He shook his head. “You have been smoking too much of that stuff. This is cracked. What d’you mean, people are set up for certain roles?” 

_You could be great, you know._

_Slytherin could make you great._

He remembered the words of the Sorting Hat. 

_I always thought that meant that I could choose to be a successor to Voldemort if I wanted to._

Although come to think of it… it did seem a little strange that the Hat would suggest that. It was almost like the Hat had been encouraging him. 

_I mean, why would it encourage an eleven-year-old to copy the most infamous Dark wizard of all time?_

“Because your house at Hogwarts determines almost everything about your future in the wizarding world,” Malfoy said. “Didn’t you ever notice that?” 

He frowned. “What, like the Slug Club? Slughorn’s little clique? _He_ was a Slytherin.” 

Malfoy ran his hand through his hair. “Forget about the Slytherins for a moment. Have you ever looked at the houses of the top Ministry officials?” 

“Eurgh,” he said. “No. Why would I do _that_?” That was the kind of thing Hermione would do in her spare time.

“Care to guess what house the vast majority of them were in?” 

_Gryffindor._

But he just shrugged. 

“Gryffindor. Then Ravenclaw.” 

“Well, that only makes sense,” he pointed out. “Gryffindors are brave and honest. Ravenclaws are intelligent. That’s the kind of politician _I_ want.” 

Malfoy closed his eyes. “See, this this why it’s such an effective system. Sticking a label on people. Okay, what about looks?” 

He frowned. “Looks?” 

“Haven’t you noticed that the best-looking people are in Gryffindor?”

He felt himself going red. 

_Is this all just a roundabout way of making a pass at me?_

 “Gryffindors,” Malfoy said, learning forward earnestly, “are better-looking, taller, healthier, more athletic.” 

_Oh…_

_Well, I’m not that tall…_

Malfoy seemed to notice his blush and froze for a moment, then withdrew, a pink tinge appearing on his cheeks. “Er,” he said. “I mean, generally speaking.”

“Generally speaking,” he said, looking at Malfoy. His pink cheeks looked particularly fetching against his pale skin, his silver eyes and hair. 

“Er—” Malfoy stammered, pushing his hair out of his face with one elegant hand. “And then Slytherins, on the other hand…”

_He’s right._

He thought of Marcus Flint’s awful teeth. Pansy Parkinson’s pug face. Millicent Bulstrode, who looked like a forklift driver. 

_The Slytherins are an ugly bunch._

“A good number of the Slytherins have some long-term health problem,” Malfoy said. “Out of a given year, the least attractive of them _will_ be in Slytherin.” 

_Except for Malfoy._

_He’s an exception._

But then Malfoy hadn’t always looked like that, he reminded himself. Malfoy had really grown into his looks. 

_He used to look like a rodent, remember?_

_An albino rodent, so pale he was almost translucent._

_Yeah, but forget that… look at him now…_

_He’s…fit._

_He’s really fit._

“It’s a well-known fact that health and beauty is associated with goodness,” Malfoy said. “And sickness and ugliness with evil.” 

_Beauty is associated with goodness._

Malfoy had one slim leg crossed over the other as he perched on the edge of the bed. The line of his jaw was highlighted by the sun coming in from the window.

“Then how do you explain Cedric Diggory?” He asked. “He was in Hufflepuff.” 

Malfoy spread his hands. “I’m not saying there aren’t exceptions. It’s also… there are other factors as well.” 

“I think you’re giving the Sorting Hat far too much credit here,” he said. “It’s just a hat, you know.” Even though the Hat had been known to do some rather strange things, like singing them songs with moral messages and delivering the Sword of Gryffindor and crucial moments. 

Malfoy shook his head. “It’s not the Sorting Hat,” he said. “It’s the one who controls the Sorting Hat.” 

_The one who controls the Sorting Hat?_

_You could be great, you know._

_And Slytherin could make you great._

He looked at Malfoy skeptically. “Are you talking about Dumbledore?” 

Malfoy held his gaze. “Who else?” 

_You could be great, you know._

_And Slytherin could make you great._

_It’s not the Sorting Hat._

_It’s the one who controls the Sorting Hat._

_Wait, so Dumbledore_ told _the Sorting Hat to tell me I could be the second Voldemort?_

_Dumbledore told the Hat to tell me I could be evil?_

Malfoy was still looking at him, his head to one side a little, as if he was listening, listening to him with his entire being. His lips were slightly parted.

_I want him to tell me to fuck him._

_I fancy him._

_I fancy Harry Potter._

“Great theory, Malfoy. I’d say you should sell it to the Quibbler, but I don’t think they go in for criticising Dumbledore’s memory. Isn’t there a Dark wizard bulletin you can send it to?” 

_Dumbledore told me what what separates me from Riddle is that I can love._

Malfoy’s expression didn’t change, but something shuttered behind his eyes. 

“As a Slytherin, of course you _would_ have an excuse for the damage your house has done—”

“I’m not saying that—” Malfoy snapped. 

“And you tried to _kill_ Dumbledore,” he continued, ignoring Malfoy. “So why would I listen to anything you say to try to criticise him?” 

Malfoy stood up. “The food is cold,” he said, going over to the desk and taking out his wand to cast a warming spell on it. “Do you want to talk about those Daily Prophets now?” 

_I love._

_Of course I do._

_I love… I love…_

He remembered Hermione’s face in the forest, the way she had looked at him with clear eyes. _You just said it, Harry. The ghosts of everyone you ever loved. But what about the rest of us, who are still alive? You don’t give two shits about us, do you?_

_That’s not true._

_Not true at all._

Malfoy sat down on the chair next to the desk and started to eat his breakfast. 

“What about mine?” He said, as he was still on the bed on the other side of the room. 

“What do I look like, a House Elf?” Malfoy snapped. “Get it yourself.” 

He crawled across the bed, crossed to the desk and picked up the entire tray. Malfoy took his plate and the coffee and other things off as he was taking the tray away and slammed them on the desk and tsked in irritation, not looking at him. 

“I asked for white _toast_ ,” he said, picking up the bread, which was more like a rustic farmhouse loaf. 

_I can love._

_I’m_ filled _with love, for god’s sake._

_Dumbledore is right._

_Auntie was wrong._

“Diva it up much, Potter? You sound like a spoiled Quidditch player griping at his manager.” 

The tone of Mafoy’s voice grated on his nerves. 

“Speaking of divas, you _look_ like Celestina Warbeck,” he retorted. 

_I shouldn’t have said what I did last night._

He felt a creeping, awful sickness in his stomach. 

_I shouldn’t have said anything._

“Oh  _Tina_ ," Malfoy ran a hand through his hair. "Darling  _Tina_ wishes she looked  _this_ good. In fact, she Owls me constantly asking for style advice."

_Why did I say that to Malfoy?_

_I shouldn’t have…_

He couldn’t believe he had done that. Said anything to Malfoy. 

_I asked him to read those papers for me._

_I said Hermione used to read them._

He shouldn’t have done that. What he had done sat in his stomach like a stone. 

_I hate Malfoy._

_I hate him._

“Outside, you might be,” he said, looking at Malfoy, “but…” 

Malfoy looked alarmed. “But what? Out with it,” he snapped. “What did you want to say?” 

“You said it yourself,” He said. “You don’t have any friends.”

_You told me yourself that you’ve done despicable things._

_I can’t believe I told you that._

_I feel sick._

“Hecate, Potter, what was the name of that charm school again?” Malfoy said sarcastically, his eyes narrowing. 

_No-one forced me to say those things._

_So why did I do it?_

“You spread rumours about people,” he said. “Rumours that could destroy someone. I think you belong in Slytherin more than anyone I ever met. You might be pretty on the outside, Malfoy, but your insides are ugly and twisted. And you’d have to be _sick_ to tell Myrtle what you told her and spread that rumour all over the school.” 

He stood up and went over to the armchair where Malfoy had been sitting. The copies of the Daily Prophet were stacked neatly on the footrest. 

_He did it._

_He actually did it._

_This has gone too far._

He picked up the newspaper on top, the one that read ARREST in huge letters across the front, and ripped it in two. Then he tore those two halves in two. And then he started on the other issues.

Malfoy looked so horrified that he actually started to feel a little better. 

_I should never have agreed to this._

_I should have left your house last night._

_But I was scared._

He’d been weak. He’d needed…

_No I didn’t._

_I don’t need anything or anyone._  

_I’m disgusted with myself._

“You know,” He said, staring into Malfoy’s pretty silver eyes. “I was actually starting to feel sorry for you.” 

“S-sorry for me?” 

“Yeah,” He said. “Because you thought Snape was loyal to your side. And I know you’re worried about your Dad and stuff. Because he was Snape’s lover. But Snape actually loved _my_ mum. And he was loyal to Dumbledore until the end.” He could barely suppress a smirk of satisfaction at the look of horror on Malfoy’s face. “Sorry about that.” 

He left. 


	76. Back To The Servants

**Draco**

_Why did I go into that stuff with Potter?_

_He’s never going to listen to me._

Potter was trying to get on the Hogwarts Express back to the Light, and he wasn’t going to have time for the ravings of a teenage Death Eater. 

_It’s not like I hoped we had a future._

_It’s not like I hoped Potter and I had a future._

_It’s not like I thought those kisses meant something._

_Those words._

He knew that, and yet… 

_I’ve been living in a fantasy world._

_I’ve been imagining there is a future for me and Potter._

_I’m an idiot_

There was nothing to burst your bubble than a dose of cold, hard reality. 

“I asked for white _toast_.” Potter said, like a two-year-old who had broken his toy wand. 

Potter had looked at him like he was as insane as Aunt Bella when he’d started explaining about the house system. 

_Potter is fully indoctrinated into the Light._

_He swallowed it hook, line and sinker._

It didn’t matter that Mum and Potter’s Aunt had had a relationship. 

_I started to think maybe Potter could be brought around…_

_That maybe…_

Sir had told him that Potter would start questioning his reality. That he would start to realise how he had been manipulated. 

_But that’s not happening._

_The more they do to him, the more obstinately he clings to them._

Potter was like a domestic violence victim, justifying the blows and explaining how he deserved them. 

_Okay, well, he doesn’t think he deserves it._

_But the more they persecute him, the tighter he latches on._

He’d thought that maybe Potter had some shred of perspective left, from the time when he lived with his aunt. That maybe she would have explained some things to him. That she would have warned him about Whitebeard. But clearly that hadn’t happened. 

_Nothing is going to dissuade Potter from this allegiance._

_He knows nothing else, and he doesn’t_ want _to know anything else._

Potter was going to be out of his life very soon, and he really was going to be out of his life. 

_I don’t think you see your future in the wizarding world at all._

And he, Draco Malfoy, would need to decide what he was going to do. 

_The future of the House of Malfoy?_

_That’s you, darling._

He had sworn to protect Potter, but last night he had realised that this was deceptive. He had been Potter’s sworn mage. 

_I can protect him physically._

_But I can’t protect him from other things that hurt._

Seeing Potter lying curled up on the bed, suddenly vulnerable, last night, he had felt a cavern open up in his chest—ready for Potter. Ready to let him in. 

_Let me…_

_Let me be there for you._

When Potter asked him to read the newspapers for him, he’d had a lump in his throat so painful that he wanted to cry. He’d wanted to crawl onto the bed and enfold Potter in his arms. 

_I needed you then._

_And I need you now._

But he hadn’t done that. He had read the Daily Prophets from cover to cover. 

_Hope, Draco._

He had stayed up all night watching the house across the street. 

_Hope will be the death of you._

Then Potter had woken up, and everything had gone back to the way it was before.  

_I need to kill this hope._

_Once and for all, I need to kill this hope._

He could protect Potter physically, but not emotionally. 

And he couldn’t protect Potter from himself. 

_And there lies the greatest threat of all._

“Diva it up much, Potter? You sound like a spoiled Quidditch player griping at his manager.” 

Potter shot him a glance of pure malice. “Speaking of divas, you look like Celestina Warbeck,” Potter growled. 

_Oh._

_Really._

_You want to do this?_

There was no way Potter could compete with him in a war of words.  

“Oh  _Tina._ Darling Tina  _wishes_ she looked this good. In fact, she Owls me constantly asking for style advice."

Potter scoffed. “Outside, you might be, but…” 

_I’m sorry?_

_Did he just say…_

“But what?” He said sharply, sitting up. His heart was beating fast now. 

Potter looked back at him. His eyes were very green. 

“Out with it,” he snapped. “What did you want to say?” 

“You said it yourself,” Potter said. “You don’t have any friends.”

_Ouch._

_That was a little below the belt, wasn’t it?_

“Hecate, Potter, what was the name of that charm school again?” 

“You spread rumours about people,” Potter continued. 

_Oh, fuck._

“Rumours that could destroy someone.” 

He had stopped breathing. 

“I think you belong in Slytherin,” Potter said. “More than anyone I ever met. You might be pretty on the outside, Malfoy, but your insides are ugly and twisted. And you’d have to be sick to tell Myrtle what you told her and spread that rumour all over the school.” 

Quite possibly his heart had stopped beating as well. 

Potter got up, nearly upsetting the breakfast sitting on the bed, and marched over to the armchair he had been sitting in all night. Potter picked up the copies of the Daily Prophet and started tearing them into pieces. 

_He blames me._

_He blames me for that._

He sat there, unable to move for shock, and watched Potter tear up the newspapers. 

_Trust, Draco._

_The willing and voluntary dropping of defences._

_Well, Sir._

_Take a look at this._

_Isn’t this a pretty picture?_

_Do you want to see someone fuck up as royally and professionally as it’s ever been done?_

_Are you proud of me now?_

“You know,” Potter said. “I was actually starting to feel sorry for you.” 

“You—you were?” 

“Yeah,” Potter said. “Because you thought Snape was loyal to your side. And I know you’re worried about your Dad and stuff. Because he was Snape’s lover, or whatever. But Snape actually loved _my_ mum. And he was loyal to Dumbledore until the end.” Potter cocked his head to the side just a little. “Sorry about that.” 

And then Potter turned and walked out of the hotel room without a backward glance. 

_Hecate wept._

He sat down heavily on the armchair, sitting on fragments of Daily Prophet as he did. He looked out the window. Somehow he knew what he was going to see. Within a couple of minutes Potter emerged into the street, crossed it and headed for the small alley which led to the entrance to the mansion where Dumbledore’s Army had their headquarters. Before he went into the alley, Potter paused, turned and looked up at the window where he sat. 

Potter was too far away to see him in detail, but Potter knew he was here, make no mistake about it. 

Potter raised his arm and gave him two fingers. 

Then he was gone. 

* 

“Father?” 

The house was silent. 

_I think he’s gone._

The ground floor was empty. He bounded up the stairs. “Dad?” 

Silence. 

He pushed open the door to the master bedroom. It was empty. The bed was unmade. Father’s dressing gown lay coiled on the floor. 

_Hecate._

_He’s gone._

Father hadn’t told him where he was going. He searched the room for a note, turned over the pillows, opened the drawer of the bedside table. There was nothing inside but a tube of lubricant gel. 

_Yecch._

_I didn’t need to see that._

If Father was gone, and if Father had left without telling him and without leaving a note, it could only mean one thing. 

_He has rejoined them._

_He has rejoined the Servants._

There was a small wardrobe in the corner of the room. He opened it and found one set of jet black robes. Father must have brought a spare. He took them off the hanger and left the bedroom. He went back to his bedroom and tried to resist the urge to fling himself down on the bed and cry his eyes out. Instead he flung the robes on the bed and headed for the bathroom. 

He turned on the shower and started taking his clothes off, letting the room fill up with steam. 

_I’ve never seen such a look of hatred._

_As Potter gave me._

He turned to the mirror and looked at the big, ugly scar on his chest. 

_No wonder Potter doesn’t want me._

_Look at this thing._

_I didn’t take the dittany._

_I wanted to be able to show everyone exactly what Harry Potter did to me._

He’d been so angry back then. He’d been so full of rage. 

_Why did I fall in love with him?_

He looked at himself, standing naked in front of the mirror above the sink. 

_You might be pretty on the outside, Malfoy, but your insides are ugly and twisted._

_And you’d have to be sick to tell Myrtle what you told her and spread that rumour all over the school._

Last night, when Potter had been so broken down, he’d wanted to try to explain that time with Myrtle. Try to explain what he’d said. Try to explain to Potter how he had started to feel attracted to him and how his mind had become filled with images of him. How, once he had imagined Potter wanting him, he couldn’t stop thinking about it, night and day. How he couldn’t concentrate in lessons because all he could think about was Potter pulling him into a dark alcove down the Charms corridor. 

He would have tried to explain that he kept telling himself it was just sexual. 

_I was so terrified of what it would mean, if it wasn’t…_

_I was so terrified of the alternative._

He would have told Potter that when he thought Potter was dead… when he saw Hagrid carrying him in his arms, lifeless and ____, that he had realised he had fallen in love.

And in that moment of despair, he had found hope. 

_I thought I was damned._

_I thought I was beyond saving._

_But if I could love you, there was hope for me._

_You were a blessing in my darkest moment._

He turned away from the mirror, climbed into the shower and stood under the hot water. It was _very_ hot but he forced himself to stand there, and take the burn. It felt good. He thought of Garbage, one of his favourite bands. They had a song he had listened to over and over again in the past year.

_Send me an angel to love_

_I want to feel a little piece of heaven_

_I’m afraid I’ll never get to heaven_

He could only imagine how horrified Potter would be to hear himself referred to as an angel… but it wasn’t any sillier than calling someone a pretty little veela… was it?

_Send me an angel to love_

_I want to feel a little piece of heaven_

_I’m afraid I’ll never get to heaven_

He picked up the soap, which was scented with sandalwood. 

_Potter smelled of sandalwood that time at the Manor._

_When I first brought him to the Manor._

If he could clean his soul in the same way that he cleaned his body, would Potter like him? Would Potter want him? 

If he could scrub out the stains, would he be a new person? 

The Dark Mark on his arm taunted him. 

_Are you surprised by what Potter did?_

_How do you think he stands the shame—_

_The shame of people thinking he got fucked by Draco Malfoy?_

_By a Death Eater with a black skull branded on his arm?_

He could still remember the fantasy with crystal clear clarity. He’d kissed Potter against the tiled wall, his skin slippery, his mouth open. He’d held Potter’s hands above his head against the cold tiles. His arm had been unglamoured, unmarked, untainted and it had been wrapped around Potter’s waist. 

_I should never have told Myrtle._

_I should never have said it aloud to her._

_I didn’t trust her._

_I knew she wasn’t my friend._

The morning after he’d told Myrtle, he’d woken up at six am feeling nauseous about what he’d done. His head had been thick and foggy and the whites of his eyes solid red, but what he’d done had paralysed him with horror. 

_I knew she wasn’t the right person to confide in._

He scrubbed shampoo into his scalp. The hot water wasn’t good for his hair, but he didn’t change the temperature. 

_I must be a terrible person for feeling worse about this_

_than the fact I sat underneath a corpse_

_and listened to her killer like an obedient worm._

He thought of Potter lying there curled up on the bed last night. 

_Potter doesn’t like me._

_He doesn’t trust me._

_So why did he tell me?_

Potter shouldn’t have told him. Potter should never have told him that. Potter must have felt as sick about telling him as he had about telling Myrtle. His hair was clean, but he still stood there, letting the water run over his closed eyes. 

_He shouldn’t have come with me last night._

_I can’t do anything good for him._

He turned the water off and wrapped himself in a towel, walked back into his bedroom and lay down on his bed. The pillow began to soak up the water from his hair. He didn’t care. 

_I don’t want to go back there._

_I don’t want to see them again._

_I want to keep Father safe._

_I want to protect Potter._

_But I’m scared of those men._

He had done his best to forget how scared. 

_Mum protected me by inviting them into the Manor._

_But there’s no ancient magic protecting me here._

He sat up slowly. He had laid down on top of Father’s spare robes and now they were damp and wrinkled. _The worse I look, the better._

He pushed the towel away. 

_Right._

_Time to get dressed._

_And then I’m going to Dolohov’s._

_To rejoin the Servants of the Dark Lord._

*

The robes swished incessantly around his feet as he walked. They made a rasping sound against the stone floor as he walked into the kitchen. He didn’t have any traditional shoes, just his Airwalks, which weren’t exactly appropriate. He ended up putting some charms on them to make them appear, at first glance, to be made of black leather. He would just have to keep his feet out of sight. 

_Not too well prepared, am I?_

If he was honest, he had been hoping that the whole thing would be called off and he wouldn’t have to face them again. That Potter would change his mind. 

_Well, he did._

_And then he changed it back again._

His hair looked Muggle-ish. Trendy layers and angles were not part of a traditional wizard’s hairstyle. 

_Hecate_

_As if I_ care. 

_Now where did Mum say those potions were…_

Behind the tinned soup, she had said. He located the soup and pushed the tins aside, pressing against the wall behind them. 

_Ah._

One section of the wall looked like stone, but his fingers felt wood. He pressed it again and it sprang open to reveal a deep cupboard with two shelves filled with potions bottles.

_Well, thank Hecate for that._


	77. Vampire Kiss

**Harry**

He knocked three times on the grand front door, and waited.   
****

_I told myself to act more like a Slytherin._

_Be more devious._

That was a mistake. He should never have done that. 

_I told myself to listen to Malfoy._

_I told myself to play along._

_I told myself to make him think his plan was working._

That had been a terrible idea. He thought of Malfoy’s silver eyes, looking into his. Not sarcastic. Not spiteful. Earnest, open.

_Malfoy really does fancy me._

_I think he fancies me a_ lot. 

He thought, horribly, of Bellatrix Lestrange and her vomit-inducing crush on the Dark Lord. 

_Oh, god._

The scene in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom suddenly took on a new meaning. 

_It’s… creepy._

_It’s creepy and it’s disturbing._

Malfoy had been _obsessing_ over him. Malfoy had been… _fantasising about him._ He shuddered. 

_What right do you have to use me in your—your—sick fantasies?_

_I don’t want to be in your head._

Malfoy might have been obsessed with him for years. Malfoy had _always_ been intrusive—always bothering him, teasing him, talking to him, when he had no desire to speak to Malfoy at all. 

_Is that because he’s been … fixated on me?_

And Malfoy hadn’t even had the decency to keep this to himself. 

 _He’s been_ telling people. 

_He told Myrtle._

_He told the whole school._

_He probably told the Death Eaters._

What kind of lies had Malfoy spun? Had Malfoy told everyone that they were seeing each other? He’d been away from school for months, he had no way of knowing that Malfoy had been saying about him. And he hadn’t _been_ there, so there was no way for him to defend himself against anything Malfoy _did_ say. 

A horrible, horrible thought had come into his head. In sixth year, Ron had eaten those Amortentia-laced chocolates from Romilda Vane and he had fallen madly in love with her. 

_Has Malfoy ever tried to do anything like that?_

_Has Malfoy_ told _people he tried to do that?_

_What if he told the Slytherins that was how he got me into the Quidditch showers…_

His head was spinning. He was probably going way overboard with the theories here. But maybe he wasn’t. He’d been trying to figure out what Malfoy was up to for days now and he felt as if he were no closer to finding out. Somehow he still didn’t believe what Malfoy had told him about wanting to get revenge. He hadn’t seemed _that_ angry about it. 

_What if Malfoy was planning to give me Amortentia, then show up at the Death Eaters’ …_

If Malfoy gave him Amortentia, he would find himself irresistibly attracted to Malfoy. He wouldn’t be able to resist if Malfoy tried anything. If Malfoy tried to…

_Harry, mate, what are you doing—_

_Bugger off, Ron, I need to figure this out, alright?_

_Figure? I don’t know if this is—_

He pushed Ron firmly out of his head. He wasn’t about to listen to _anything_ Ron had to say to him at the moment, especially an imaginary Ron living in his head. 

He could imagine Malfoy arranging a meeting in a cafe to discuss capturing the Death Eaters. Malfoy would subtly slip a few drops of Amortentia into his Coke and then watch him with icy-eyed satisfaction as he drank it, a smirk curling his lips. Then Malfoy would arrange for him to show up at Dolohov’s mansion at a certain time and place. Malfoy would have made sure that all the Death Eaters were present, in one room. Malfoy would have arranged a plan with him. Malfoy would _pretend_ that he had tricked Harry Potter into showing up at Dolohov’s. The Death Eaters would cheer, pounce on him, tie him up and then proceed to celebrate the capture of the great Harry Potter. While they were celebrating, however, Malfoy would be setting up the double-cross. Malfoy would have some kind of trap set up which he was supposed to activate as soon as the Death Eaters had all let their guard down. He would be there, tied up, distracting the Death Eaters, trusting Malfoy— _but_. Malfoy’s Amortentia would have been working on him all afternoon. He would have slowly found his mind filling up with mental images of Malfoy’s silver eyes, his wicked smile, that choker around his long white neck, his legs in those shorts, and that scar on his chest. He would be fighting valiantly against these unwanted mental intrusions, determined to complete his task and take down the Death Eaters once and for all. And then Malfoy would make his move. Claim his revenge. Destroy the Boy Who Lived once and for all. 

Malfoy would approach him, turn to the other Death Eaters and say, _You think you’ve seen Harry Potter at his lowest? You think you’ve debased him? Watch this._

And Malfoy would lean into his ear and whisper, as delicately as an insect’s footsteps, _What do you want me to do?_ He would fight and struggle bravely, but the insidious potion had already done its work. He could just imagine how Malfoy would flick his wand and make the ropes binding him fall suddenly to the floor. How Malfoy would stand in front of him, cock his head to one side and look at him, directly, with those silver eyes. Such a striking colour. _Leave, then,_ Malfoy would say. He would try to leave. Oh, he really would. He would command his feet to turn and march toward the door and leave and never look back. But the devious Amortentia had already affected his mind. He would shake his head. Malfoy would look around at the assembled Death Eaters, standing in a ring around them, quirk one eyebrow and shrug ever so slightly. The Death Eaters would snicker lightly. _Tell me,_ Malfoy would say, coming closer again, his voice so quiet, little more than a breath, so that no-one else could hear. He was weak from fighting the Amortentia. He was weak from looking at Malfoy. Malfoy came closer again and lifted his hand and traced the scar on his forehead lightly, but the touch burned. _What do you want me to do to you, Harry Potter?_ He would feel the Amortentia surging through his veins and, powerless to resist, he would feel his own body going limp as Malfoy stepped forward and put his arms around him. Malfoy would be holding him up, keeping him from falling, and he would hear Malfoy’s voice in his ear. _Tell me, Potter. So all of these Death Eaters can watch._ He couldn’t say the words. But Malfoy knew. Malfoy knew what the Amortentia had done. Malfoy leaned his head back with one hand and kissed him like a vampire draining a victim. Under the spell of Amortentia, he would grab Malfoy like a drowning man while the Death Eaters cheered. 

“Harry?” 

He was so startled he nearly fell off the topmost step of the short set of steps leading up to the mansion. 

It was Luna Lovegood. He felt terribly relieved, somehow, to see her. 

_Luna._

_Thank god, it’s Luna._

_Good old Luna._

Luna opened the door wider to let him in and he went inside. Luna immediately locked the door and then with a look of great concentration on her face, performed a wordless spell of some kind on the door. He assumed she did this to lock it. 

“Sit down here,” she said, indicating a chair. 

It was the same chair that Seamus Finnegan had been asleep in yesterday morning when he’d snuck out of this house. He sat down obediently. 

Luna pointed her wand at him, and then he was tied to the chair with stout cord.

“Luna!” He said in outrage. “This is bang out of order!” 

Luna looked dispassionately back at him. “Wait here,” she said, and floated off in that ethereal way of hers. 

He sat there, trying unsuccessfully to free himself and succeeded only in jerking the chair around the room a little. Panting with exertion, he gave up. 

_Bugger this for a lark._

His cheeks felt hot, and it wasn’t completely because he was embarrassed to have been tied to a chair by someone he considered a friend. 

_I told myself to play along with Malfoy._

Which meant that he had done the worst possible thing he could have done. He had encouraged Malfoy. 

_I was just playing along._

_Which I never should’ve done, but I did._

_I wasn’t really interested in how many languages he speaks or whatever._

_It was just to string him along. Make him think his plan is working._

Malfoy was in his head again, in Myrtle’s bathroom, his eyes closed, robes open, saying in a voice of desperation, _I want him to tell me to fuck him._

He bit his lip. He should never have watched that memory. Of course he didn’t care that Malfoy fancied him. But that memory was deeply disturbing, and it was clearly a sign of a very sick mind at work. 

_And I…_

_I asked that sick mind to read the newspapers for me._

_Just like Hermione would have._

_I can’t believe I did that._

_What is wrong with me?_

He had told Malfoy about Ron’s betrayal. 

_Malfoy must have thought he struck a vein in the galleon mine. To hear me say that._

He had fed Malfoy’s obsession. That was what he had done. And now Malfoy could go and tell everyone that Harry Potter had lain in the foetal position and confided in him. 

_Didn’t you ever just need someone to talk to?_

Yes, he had. But Malfoy wasn’t the right person. And now he felt violated. 

Because Malfoy might _think_ he fancied him, might _think_ he had feelings for him. Malfoy might even _think_ he was in love with him. But in the past few days he had gotten the measure of Draco Malfoy and whatever it was that Malfoy felt, it wasn’t love. 

Like what Bellatrix Lestange felt for Tom Riddle wasn’t love. 

Like what he’d felt as a child for the Dursleys wasn’t love. 

Like what you felt under Amortentia wasn’t love. 

He found himself staring at the polished stones which made up the floor of the mansion. 

Whatever it was, it was damaging, it was hurtful, it was something that poisoned a person from within. 

It wasn’t love. 

_Draco Malfoy isn’t capable of love._

_Unlike me._

“Harry,” he recognised Neville’s voice and turned his head to see Neville walking into the entrance hall. “Good to see you.” Neville clapped a hand on his shoulder. His tone was warm and friendly, even though he wasn’t smiling. 

“I’d say the same to you,” he replied. “But I’m tied to a chair.” 

Neville nodded, hand still on his shoulder. It was actually quite reassuring. Neville had a calm, steady, rock-like presence about him. This combined with his physical size—he really had grown a _lot—_ made him seem like a kind of gentle giant. 

_I’m glad it’s Neville._

_And not Ginny._

Neville crouched down next to the chair so they were eye to eye. “I can’t untie you, Harry,” he said. “Now. We’re going to take you in to see Ginny. She has some questions for you.” 

That old feeling of the world having been flipped came over him again. 

“Actually, _Nev_ ,” he said. “I’ve got some questions for _you_.” 

Neville’s eyes betrayed nothing but mild surprise. Neville looked at him, then glanced around. “Have you had breakfast?” He asked. 

He shook his head. 

Neville stood up, took out his wand and muttered “ _Finite Incantatem._ ” 

The ropes binding him fell off. He shook off the last of them and stood up. “Thanks,” he said. 

Neville pointed one large finger at him. “Behave,” he rumbled. 

_Jesus Christ._

_Is this for real?_

_Neville Longbottom threatening to clap me in irons if I don’t ‘behave’?_

“Yeah, alright,” he said, irritated. 

Neville’s heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder again and Neville started to lead him out of the entrance hall. But instead of continuing through another grand set of doors on one side of the hall, Neville pointed to a small, inconspicuous door which lay just out of sight beyond the hall. “Through here,” Neville said, opening it to reveal a flight of stairs heading downward.

He started descending, feeling the air get cooler as he climbed down. He heard a chatter of voices and clattering, busy sounds. And the _smell_. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was. 

_When was the last time I ate?_

He tried to remember. He and Ron had tried to find something to eat in the early hours of the morning after they’d left the gay bar, but everything had been shut. That meant he hadn’t eaten anything yesterday or the night before. Had he eaten anything during that day? 

_I had breakfast with Auntie._

So that was almost two full days without a bite to eat. He just kept forgetting. 

The subterranean kitchen was large, with a low ceiling and some light coming in from a window at street level. There was a big table where Seamus Finnegan and Alicia Spinnett were sitting, chatting and laughing. When they saw Neville, they both stood up. 

_Are they about to salute?_

It was faintly absurd. Now they were both looking at him. 

_I might as well be handcuffed._

“Good morning,” Neville said. “Ginny and I send our apologies for missing breakfast. Could you whip something up for Harry and myself?” 

“Of course,” Seamus and Alicia muttered in chorus, and quickly stood up and vacated the table. 

Neville gestured toward the table. “Have a seat,” he said. 

He sat down, feeling out of place in this cheery kitchen with these people who had been his friends, but who were now, somehow, not.

_They were my friends._

_Weren’t they?_

Neville sat down opposite him. “Oh, thanks, Seamus,” Neville said, as Seamus had immediately come over and started placing plates and cutlery in front of them, followed by two mugs.

“Just getting the tea,” Seamus said, and within a few moments was back with a jug of milk and a large, steaming pot of tea, which he poured for Neville. 

“Tea, Harry?” Seamus said, but didn’t meet his eyes. 

“Er—yeah,” he said, watching the tea being poured. 

_English tea._

_Proper British tea._

Neville added milk to his tea, took a sip and sighed in satisfaction. “That’s a proper brew. Cheers, Seamus.” 

He sipped his tea and immediately started to feel better. 

“You’re looking very thin, Harry,” Neville said. 

There was a sugar pot on the table in front of him and he spooned in a couple of teaspoons and stirred. He shrugged. “I’ve been busy.” 

“You’ve dropped a lot of weight,” Neville said. 

He drank again. 

_I wish he would shut up._

_It’s none of his business._

“I have to be honest with you Harry,” Neville said. “You look a fright.” 

He started to feel embarrassed. “Shut it, Neville.” 

“We’ll put you somewhere comfortable,” Neville said reassuringly. “Where you can have a bath. And get your clothes cleaned. You can chill out a bit. You look…stressed. What happened to your arm, anyway?”  

_Stressed._

_Yeah._

_Wonder why?_

_It could’t be cause Shacklebolt wants me arrested or anything, could it?_

“I broke it,” he muttered. 

“Ah, brilliant,” Neville said, as Alicia and Seamus returned carrying large, steaming platter each which they placed in front of Neville and him. 

_Full English._

_With proper beans and everything._

It looked and smelled incredible. 

Alicia and Seamus then both took off the large white aprons they had been wearing and walked out of the kitchen, closing the door to the stairs behind them. He was alone with Neville. 

_Right._

He had been meaning to speak to Neville about this for some time. 

“So, Neville,” he said. “How come you stole my girlfriend?” 

Neville paused with half a fried egg halfway to his mouth. Yolk dripped onto his bacon. Neville glanced at him, put the fork in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. 

_I’m waiting._

Neville took a gulp of tea, wiped his mouth with a napkin. 

_Oh, Jesus._

_Are you going to answer me?_

“Ginny told me you broke up,” Neville said. “She said you broke up the summer after sixth year. She said she was single.”

_Well…_

“Is that true?” Neville asked, his voice rumbly and deep. “Did you break up with her the summer after sixth year?”

He shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. 

“So?” Neville said, buttering a piece of toast. “I didn’t steal your girlfriend.” 

“She kissed me,” he said. “ _After_ we broke up. On my birthday. Like a… present, you know?” 

Neville raised his eyebrows. “Alright,” he said, and started spreading beans on his toast with a knife.

“That doesn’t bother you?” He asked. 

“Harry,” Neville said, gesturing at his plate. “You’re not eating. Come on, get that breakfast into you.” 

“She kissed me _after_ we broke up?” He said. “That doesn’t worry you at all?” 

Neville put the toast down. “Harry, why would it?” 

He shook his head. “Why would she kiss me _after_ we broke up, unless she still wanted to go out with me?” 

“I know you expected her to wait for you, Harry.” Neville sliced a grilled tomato into four. 

“Too right I did!” He snapped, his fork and knife clattering to the wooden table. 

 _She was supposed to be_ mine.

No-one seemed to understand this. 

 _She belonged to_ me. 

Neville was slicing a black pudding into even sections and loading them onto a piece of toast along with the grilled tomato. “That’s exactly why I’m so glad she’s not with you any more,” Neville said. He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, of course you’re glad she’s not with me.” 

Neville put his cutlery down slowly and looked straight at him. “That kind of attitude toward women,” he said. “is exactly why I’m glad she’s not with you.” 

He was incredibly tempted to pick up his breakfast platter and hurl it and Neville’s head. “ _What_ attitude?” 

_What is he trying to say?_

_Potter, you really do have a way with women._

Neville didn’t answer. He was eating the piece of toast. 

_Is he trying to say I didn’t treat Ginny well?_

_That’s rubbish._

_That’s absolute rubbish._

Neville finally finished his bite of toast. “You didn’t treat her like an equal,” he said. 

“That’s bullshit,” he retorted. “Of course I did.” 

Neville frowned and crumpled his napkin in his fist. “You can argue all you like,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. “But I know what I saw. And I know what she told me.” 

He scowled. “I don’t understand why she would go with you.” 

Neville glanced at him. “Oh, I don’t understand it either, Harry,” he said. “I don’t know why a woman as incredible as her would be interested in me.” He looked down at the table. “But… she is.” 

“I doubt it will last,” he snapped. “None of them lasted long.” 

_And now I’m one of them._

_One of the ones that didn’t last long._

“That’s where you’re wrong, Harry,” Neville said, going back to his breakfast now and spearing a sausage with his fork.

“Oh, really?” He said skeptically. “How do you know that?” 

Neville munched on the sausage, and then said, “Have you ever been in love, Harry?” 

_What?_

He shook his head in confusion. 

_I…_

_Have I been in love?_

Of course. Of course he had. 

_Of course I have._

Neville poured himself another cup of tea, added milk from the jug. “Then you know what it’s like, to give another person everything. To give them everything of yourself, not holding anything back. Because you need them to see you, see all of you, see everything.” 

He looked down at his rapidly cooling breakfast. He managed a forkful of beans, but they didn’t taste right and he had a hard time swallowing them. 

“I would give her anything,” Neville said. “Anything she asked me to do, I would do it. I’d die for her,” Neville said, meeting his eyes. “I would die for Ginny.” 

_Great._

_That’s great._

_But I had something else to die for._

“Well—” he cleared his throat. “I’m sure plenty of her boyfriends felt that way about her.” 

Neville’s eyes flashed, the first sign of anger he’d seen in Neville. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Neville still had a layer of fat on him, making his shoulders a little rounded, filing out his torso under the shirt he was wearing. But underneath that fat, there was muscle. Neville had a powerful look about him now. He looked like someone who could wield the Sword of Gryffindor.

Next to Neville he felt small, dirty, weak and pathetic. He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t think you’re the only one Ginny has said things to. Done things to.” 

Neville started, his hand grabbing at the air, as if he was about to take a knife and launch himself at him. But then he sat back and said, calmly, “Harry, I know she had other relationships before me.” 

“And that doesn’t bother you?” 

_It doesn’t bother you that she went out with those other blokes?_

_It doesn’t bother you what she did with me in the Hogwarts grounds?_

_Where no-one could see?_

Neville looked at him with large, tranquil eyes. “No, Harry. Why would it?” 

_Does he not see what I’m getting at?_

“Does it not bother you that your girlfriend is a little bit of a slag?” 

Neville said, very calmly, “She’s a “slag”,” he raised his fingers in inverted commas, “because she went out with three blokes before me?” 

_Well, sort of._

_What other girl do you know that had that many boyfriends?_

_Ron was shocked by it._

He shrugged. “ _You_ said it, not me. And, I mean, Ginny doesn’t just _hold hands_ , you know.” 

“Do you think she’s a _slag_ because she has sex?” Neville said, in the same calm tone, not ruffled at all. 

He almost burst out laughing. 

_I can’t believe he said that._

Of course, he should have assumed that Ginny and Neville were… they had been a couple for some time, after all, and… 

“The thing is, Harry,” Neville said, placing his knife and fork on top of his empty plate, “I don’t think a girl is a slag if she has sex.” Neville said. “I don’t have a problem with women’s sexuality. I know she won’t mind me telling you this. When we started going out, I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear, Harry, I had never kissed a girl. But she because of her experience, she was able to show me… Merlin, what she showed me…” Neville trailed off.

_What._

He stared at Neville. 

_What did you just say?_

He and Ginny had never… they had never… 

 _Ginny never had sex with_ me _._

“I’m just grateful to her,” Neville said. “I love her so much, sometimes I could just… I could just…” Neville was staring off into the distance. “I could just cease to exist, and it wouldn’t matter, as long as she was still there.” 

_I think I’m going to be sick._

_This is disgusting._

He wished he had never started this topic. He had just been trying to make Neville feel appropriately guilty. When Dumbledore had started going on about love, it had always made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. He wished Dumbledore would stop talking about it. 

_I wish Neville would stop talking about it._

He tried to think back to those summer days at the end of sixth year, when he and Ginny had first got together. When they would steal away to a secluded corner of the Hogwarts grounds and lie down together in the grass. 

But he couldn’t remember properly. 

The disturbing vision he’d had while he waited outside of the mansion was filling his mind. He could see a circle of Death Eaters, and Malfoy standing in the middle of it, looking at him, seeing through him with those silver eyes. He imagined Amortentia tasted sweet, with a biting, bitter aftertaste. 

He tried to push the visions away, but Malfoy’s vampire kiss filled his mind.

_This is sick._

He had thought he was alright. He thought he’d put the bad times behind him, that he had moved on. That he was alright, even if other people were blaming him for terrible things. 

_I’m not alright._

_Not at all._

_I have a sick mind._


	78. Pansy's Defection

**Draco**

The witch behind the counter smiled at him and asked him how come a British wizard spoke such good Croatian.   
****

He smiled. He wished he could stay here and drink coffee on the terrace built into the rocks overlooking the surf.

_I wish I could go to the beach._

_I wish I could put on swimming trunks and lie on a towel._

_Feel the hot sun on my skin._

But instead he was sweating in traditional robes and trying to avoid the temptation to unslick his hair, which he had done to hide the fact it was cut in a Muggle style. 

The witch leaned forward and said, in Croatian, “I could let you use our Floo connection. But only if you ask _very_ nicely.” 

He paused. It probably wasn’t a good idea to Floo in, uninvited and unannounced. But he couldn’t send an owl, either. 

“I want to walk,” he said. 

She looked at him like he was mad. 

“It’s a nice day,” he shrugged. 

“Well, I think you’re crazy,” she replied, “you should wait until after dark, then you can take a broomstick and fly up. It’s all the way up the hill.” But she started tracing the route on the countertop with her finger. 

He watched. He hadn’t been here in so long, and as a child he had mostly stayed in the Old Town. He still remembered how to get to one of the beaches by bus, but that was about it. 

He was going to look like a muppet wandering around the streets in these robes. 

_A Death Eater with a tourist map._

_That’s a sight to be seen._

“Thanks,” he said to the witch, and left. He had been there over an hour, hoping he would see one of the Servants there. But he hadn’t recognised anyone. 

_I need to go straight there._

_Not hang around here, looking for leads to follow._

No sooner had the door closed behind him—

“Draco!” 

_Oh Hecate._

_No._

Pansy Parkinson threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. She pulled back, a huge grin spread over her face, and squealed in delight. 

_Oh, Pansy…_

She was also wearing traditional black robes. She was openly carrying her wand. She put her free arm through his and started walking him along the street away from the wizarding cafe. “Isn’t this too exciting? Oh, my Circe.” 

Like a wizard who has improperly cast the _Jesu_ charm on a body of water, he recognised that sinking feeling. 

_Fuck._

_Fuck!_

She clung tighter to his arm and whispered, “Daddy says I can join now.” She laughed and did a little jig. “So _you_ can’t try to stop me any more.” 

“What about Millie?” He asked. 

“Oh, _Draco_ , don’t worry about Millie,” Pansy said. “I’m a big girl, you know, and I can do what I like.” 

He sighed. “Pansy…” 

_What is the point of joining the Servants now?_

_They are the Servants_ of the Dark Lord _, after all._

_And the Reptile is no more._

He removed Pansy’s arm from his waist and linked it through his arm again instead. “Why are you walking around with your wand drawn?” He asked. 

“Looking for Lightbunnies,” Pansy giggled. “You _know_ they’ve been duelling in the streets. And yesterday Weasley took Amycus Carrow hostage.” 

“And do you want to be taken hostage, too?” He asked. 

“Silly,” Pansy said, tugging on his hair at the back of his neck. She hugged his arm to her. “You’ve been trying to keep me out of the Servants all this time. Admit it! You have!”

He didn’t reply. 

“You just stopped talking to me,” Pansy said reproachfully. “Like you didn’t care about me at _all_.” 

_I stopped talking to you because Millicent Bullstrode would have pummelled me into a pulp if she thought I was trying to recruit you._

“But now Daddy says I’m old enough,” Pansy said. “So I decided to come. I just arrived from England this morning.”

“And that’s the only reason you’re here?” He asked. “Walking around the city?”

“Well…” she said. “Actually…” 

_I knew it._

“They sent me to look for _you_ ,” she said. 

“Er…” 

_That doesn’t sound good._

“You see,” Pansy whispered, with a slight giggle, “they want to ask you a few questions.” 

He sighed. 

_Yeah._

_That sounds great._

“They want to ask you about this,” Pansy was laughing softly but steadily now, as if trying to keep in hysteria. She took something out of her pocket and held it out to him. 

_Yeah._

_Yeah, I thought they might._

It was a clipping from the Daily Prophet from two days ago. He knew it well. In fact, he knew almost every line. He had read many times it last night while he was reading the newspapers for Potter. 

Pansy hugged his arm to her even tighter and started reading. “This is the headline, Draco, listen: _Teenage Death Eater turns informer_.” She burst out in giggles. “Listen, listen: Draco Malfoy, 18, the son of convicted Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, rumoured to himself be the youngest member of the late You-Know-Who’s inner circle, has turned himself in to Ministry authorities, our reporter has discovered. Draco Malfoy is alleged to have handed himself over to former Auror, now Minister for Magic Shacklebolt after the Hogwarts School massacre. While details remain unclear, witnesses believe that the teenager agreed to exchange his freedom in return for providing information about the identities of the late You-Know-Who’s followers.” 

Pansy’s laughter turned into sobs and she threw her arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder. “Oh Circe, Draco, I was so frightened for you.” 

He hugged her back. 

_Wait a moment…_

“Is that why you’re here?” He asked. 

She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her face with it. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 

“Pans, I’ll be fine,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he believed that himself. “We need to get you back home. Come on.”

She pushed him away, looking annoyed. “No,” she said. “I’m going to stay and make sure you’re alright.” 

He looked at her. “Pansy, you don’t want to be a Servant. Really.” 

She stuck out her chin. “Why? Because _you_ failed to please the Dark Lord? You think no-one _else_ can?” 

“Pansy, he’s _dead_ ,” he sighed, taking her arm and continuing their walk. 

“Let’s go back,” she said suddenly. “I know the way.” 

“Fine,” he said. “Can you Side-Along me?” 

“Of course,” she said, then stopped dead, one hand on his arm. “Did you see that?” 

He froze. 

_Pansy must have seen—_

A bright flash of spellfire whizzed past his ear and he pulled Pansy into the nearest alley, drawing his wand and peering around the corner. 

_Hecate._

He saw a wizard duck back behind a wall about fifty feet away. 

_I think it was that Gryffindor Quidditch captain._

_The fit one who left Hogwarts in third year._

“Wood,” he said to Pansy. “It’s Oliver Wood.” 

She laughed. “Named for his effect on the Slytherin male Quidditch players.” 

He didn’t laugh. 

_I need to get Pansy out of here._

_I don’t want to get into a scrimmage with Dumbledore’s Army._

“Let’s go,” he said, holding out his arm for Pansy to Side-Along him. 

“No!” She hissed. “I want to—”

She darted around him, assumed a defensive stance in the middle of the narrow street, and shouted a spell he didn’t recognise. 

There was a cry of—pain? from the direction where he had seen Wood disappear. 

She darted back into the alley, laughing. 

“What did you do?” He hissed. “And how did you hit him?” 

“Ricochet adjustment,” she said. “I did—” she laughed, then leaned over and whispered into his ear. 

“Pansy!” He was shocked. “Where in Hecate’s name did you learn _that_?” 

She was in the midst of a fit of giggles and couldn’t reply. Then he was blinded by a flash of spellfire and found himself thrown to the ground, being dragged along the rough flagstones. 

“Draco!” Pansy shouted, running after him and trying to catch his hand. 

He was being dragged down the street in the direction where Wood had been. He scrabbled for purchase on the stones, but only succeeded in grazing his hands and fingers. He could see Wood standing there about twenty feet away, looking enraged. Wood flicked his wand and he felt himself rise into the air. 

_Hecate wept._

_This is ridiculous._

Wood held up his hand. “ _Accio_ broom.” A racing broom flew out of the alley where he had taken shelter and smacked right into his palm. Wood pointed his wand straight at his chest and said, “ _Petrificus Totalus_.” 

_Oh Hecate._

He felt his entire body, still zooming through the air toward Wood, go completely stiff and immobile. He couldn’t even blink his eyelids. 

_Which is preferable?_

_The Servants or Dumbledore’s Army?_

_The Dark or the Light?_

_I’m so tired of all of this._

_I just don’t care._

He realised, suddenly, that this was how his father must feel. The difference was that his father would never, ever consider leaving wizarding Britain; whereas he, on the other hand…

Wood caught him, bodily, as if he was catching a Quaffle. 

_Well. Never thought I’d find myself in Oliver Wood’s arms._

_That’s for sure._

Immobile, he had no choice but to be loaded onto the back of Wood’s broom and secured with a quick sticking charm. 

_Fuck._

He would be seeing Potter again, then. 

_I don’t really want to._

He didn’t think he could face another look of disgust from Potter. Another look of utter contempt and disdain. Every time Potter did that, it chipped away a little at his soul. 

The sky above was blue as Wood mounted the broom and kicked off. 

_Here we go._

_A dignified end to this week-long bloody debacle of misery._

Then he felt an almighty tug on his legs and suddenly he was being squeezed by Apparition, the breath was gone from his lungs and blackness was pressing against his eyeballs. It happened so quickly that when he tumbled out onto stony ground, he still had no idea what happened. 

“Are you alright, Draco?” 

When his head stopped spinning and he had his breath back, he turned to Pansy. “How in Hecate’s name did you manage that?”

She stood up, dusting herself off and combing through her hair with her fingers. “I Apparated, then did a running jump and caught you. You were about ten feet in the air already.” 

He stood up and started rearranging his robes as well. “That was bloody brilliant, Pans.” 

“Let me,” she said, and smoothed his hair back with her fingers. “There.” She looked at him. “I really have missed you,” she said. 

_Yeah._

_Me too._

He sighed heavily. “That’s just…how it had to be,” he said. 

“Can we be friends again now?” She asked anxiously. 

_I don’t know if I’ll be around._

“I don’t know,” he said, trying to be honest.

Her brow knitted together. “Why? _Why_?” She crossed her arms. She peered at him. “Are you still annoyed at Millie? I thought you were with Potter now.” 

He sighed. “No, Pans, that’s… ancient history. I’m not with Potter, though.” 

She looked surprised. “Isn’t that why you went over to their side? I thought that was why. I think everyone else thinks that too.” 

He shook his head. “Look, Pans, it’s all too complicated to explain to you now. Just rest assured that I’m not still upset with you for running away with Millie when you were supposed to be my date for the Yule Ball.” 

She laughed. “You’re right. That was so long ago.” 

He smiled. “Yeah, it’s almost four years ago. Of course I’m over it.” 

“I thought they were all horrible to you,” Pansy said. “I thought they were being so horrible but I didn’t say anything. I feel terrible about that. I’m…I’m sorry, Draco.” 

_Yeah. They were horrible._

_But I deserved it, didn’t I?_

_I deserved every minute of it._

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Apology accepted.” 

“Well,” she said. “Should we go inside?” 

He turned and looked at the gates of the huge mansion they had Apparated in front of. “Yeah. I suppose we should.” His heart was pounding and he felt panic edging at him. 

_I have to do this._

_It’s the only way to protect Potter._

He stood up straighter and tried to tell himself that he was being noble. That this was some great act of bravery. But he knew it wasn’t. This was just the beginning of his to punishment for all his wrongdoings. 

_It’s only what i deserve._

As he and Pansy walked side by side back to the lair of the Servants, he felt the full weight of his own self-loathing settle heavily upon his shoulders, like a baby dragon getting too large to keep as a pet. 

_I’m not even worthy of looking at Potter._

_Let alone kissing him._

_Let alone hearing his sweet words._

_I’m a liar and a coward and now I’m going to pay for it._

_This is just the start._

_The start of my payment._

If the Time Turner could change the past, he would go back to that day in Diagon Alley and he would change everything that he had done. He had tried to lash out at Mum and Sir, but he had ended up hurting himself most of all—he’d hurt them too, but really he had paid the price in years of hating himself for it. In years of hating Potter for not knowing what a big responsibility had been given to Draco Malfoy at such a young age. In years of resenting his peers and people who could have been his friends because they weren’t quite good enough—they weren’t Gryffindors—they weren’t Harry Potter. 

If he could go back to that day in Madam Malkin’s, he would do everything differently. 

_Sir, I would make you proud._

_If I could go back._

_I would, Sir._

He would have smiled at Potter and said, “Hullo,” in a friendly voice. “Hogwarts, too?” He would have ignored the fact that the eleven-year-old Harry Potter was skinny and sickly enough to go straight to Slytherin. He would have concentrated on the faint light in his bright green eyes and tried to figure out how he could make it brighter. He would have said, “Father’s next door buying my books and Mother’s up the street looking at wands. Do you want to come with us after this and look at racing brooms? I got one for my eleventh birthday. First years aren’t allowed to have one, but I’m _sure_ they’ll make an exception for me when they see how well I fly. Can _you_ fly? Do you want me to teach you? I have a whole shelf of books about Quidditch at home.” 

Potter would slowly start to smile and come out of his shell. He could just picture it. He had seen Potter’s smile—his real smile—because there had been moments between the two of them when… when he didn’t know exactly what was going on, but the only way he could put it was that he enjoyed Potter’s company and they got on really well. Those moments had been so brief—it was like Potter would forget himself and then suddenly remember who he was joking and laughing with and the shutters would go up behind his eyes and his old friend, Angry Potter would be back, scowling and refusing to say anything. 

Then he would ask Potter, “Know what House you’ll be in, yet? Well, no-one really knows until they get there, do they? But I _know_ I’ll be in Gryffindor. Father would _hate_ that. All our family have been in Slytherin. But _I_ see myself as more of a Gryffindor, personally.” He strained his memory, trying to remember what happened after that. 

_Oh yes._

_Hagrid appeared at the window._

“I say! Look at that man,” he had said. Hagrid had been standing outside the window with two enormous, rapidly melting ice cream cones dripping all over his sausage-sized fingers. Potter had smiled at Hagrid and said, “That’s Hagrid! He works at Hogwarts.” He remembered how _pleased_ Potter had sounded, and it had enraged him. He had thought to himself, _What right does he have to know nothing and be happy?_ He remembered how Potter had replied, “He’s the gamekeeper.”

_How cruel I was._

_It was his first day in the wizarding world…_

_and I_ knew _that… and I saw that chance to cut him down…_

 _And I_ took _it…_

If he could go back and change it, he would now say, “Oh, I’ve heard of him. He breeds animals. My father breeds House Elves. Can I come and have ice cream with you?” 

And that would be that.

_It would have worked._

He was sure it would have worked. He and Potter couldn’t have failed to become friends after that. 

_That’s how it should have gone._

_Sir, that’s what I should have done._

_I could have been making you proud all these years._

_And none of this would be happening._

And a thought occurred to him which nearly brought him to his knees. 

Father had told him that Future Potter really cared about him, and for some paradoxical reason that had caused Future Potter to not want to have sex with him. Future Potter had acted like he cared. Future Potter had held him carefully, kissed him gently, and yet there had been a power and intensity behind that care which had inflamed his soul like a clarion call. 

_I know it was a mistake._

_And it was just a one-off thing._

_Potter said it himself. It wasn’t right._

He knew that he and Potter would never be together. That those few moments in which he’d known that version of Potter would have to last him the rest of his life. But for those few moments it had been real, and it had _proved_ that Potter could like him. That Potter could feel differently about him. 

_If I hadn’t mucked up that day in Diagon Alley…_

_If I hadn’t decided to be clever and rebel against Mum and Sir…_

_If I had gone into the Great Hall for the Sorting already having made friends with Potter and had a clear, happy mind…_

_I would have been able to do the Occlumency and I’m_ sure _it would have been good enough to fool Whitebeard._

And then he would have been a Gryffindor and Potter’s friend and—as they grew up—over time—maybe—

_Oh, Hecate._

_Oh, Hecate, no._

_No. I don’t want to think about this._

_I don’t want to know how it could have been._

He could see himself wearing the gold and red Gryffindor tie, walking with Potter to lessons. Getting under the Invisibility Cloak with Potter to roam the hallways at night, looking for baddies to investigate. Practising flying together on a Sunday afternoon. Trading chocolate frog cards. And as they got older… he could imagine how he would have started to notice how cute Potter was. How he would push his glasses up on his nose. How his hair always smelled so good, even though it was messy. How he rolled his school shirt up and how strong his forearms and hands looked. He could imagine that now and again he would look at Potter just a little too long, and Potter would notice and he would go red. He could imagine that for the Yule Ball, he would be secretly jealous of Potter’s date, and he would surreptitiously follow him. And then when the date went haywire, he would find Potter and they would sneak off to play broomstick chicken above the dark Quidditch pitch. And he could imagine becoming part of Dumbledore’s Army in fifth year and holding Potter when Sirius Black died, because he would understand how Potter felt, and Potter would understand how he felt. And he could imagine that in sixth year, he hadn’t joined the Servants at all. But father had been sent to Azkaban, and he was terribly worried about him. And one day he felt sad and so he was crying in the toilets and Potter was worried about him and so came after him. And instead of cursing him and giving him a scar over his heart, Potter would try to comfort him. Potter would say that Sirius Black’s parents were dark wizards too, and that never stopped Sirius Black from becoming a great Gryffindor, and a great friend, and a great wizard. Potter would be standing close, closer than a male friend would normally stand. Potter would touch his arms and leave his hands there, warm and steady, longer than a male friend would normally leave them. And Potter would look into his eyes and keep looking, longer than a male friend would normally look. And he would be overcome and he would say, _Potter… I have to tell you something… I’m in love with you._ And probably another tear would fall, because he knew that Potter didn’t like him back, that Potter was obviously going to get with Ginny Weasley. And Potter would raise one finger and catch the tear running down his cheek and wipe it away. And Potter would reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind his ear and suddenly Potter would be trembling a little. _Potter, what’s wrong?_ He would say. Potter would feel for his hand, hold it up and place it on his own chest, over his heart. Then Potter would lean forward and kiss him over and over. _I’m in love with you too._ And he could just imagine one day in seventh year, he and Potter in the Quidditch showers. They had been going out for over a year. They had sex whenever and wherever they could. And he could just imagine one evening after they had been flying together, Potter locking the door to the Quidditch showers, turning to him with dark eyes and saying, _I want you to fuck me as hard as you can_. And he would, the water pooling around his knees and Potter’s knees and the steam curling Potter’s hair. And the whole time Potter would be crying out, _I love you, Malfoy. I love you. Oh Merlin, I love you._

He could imagine how all of this could have happened if he had just followed his training like a good boy and done what Mum and Sir wanted him to do. 

If he had just been nice to Potter that day in Diagon Alley. 

That was what he didn’t want to think about.

That was what he didn’t want to know as Pansy knocked three times on the door of Dolohov’s mansion.


	79. An Audience With Ginevra

**Harry**

“I could just cease to exist, and it wouldn’t matter, as long as she was still there,” Neville trailed off, looking dreamily into the distance.   
****

He pushed away his uneaten breakfast. “I just lost my appetite,” he said.

Neville frowned. “Goodness me, Harry,” he said. “When did you become so…”

“What?” He said sharply.

Neville’s placid brown eyes gazed at him. “So bitter.” 

He turned away. He didn’t want to look at Neville’s kind, plain face. He didn’t want to see the noble bearing it took on in certain moments. Neville’s goodness sickened him. 

I’m _the good guy._

“Well,” Neville said, pushing his chair back. “Do you want to see Ginny now, or do you want to have a wash first?” 

He stared at Neville, trying to read between the lines of what he was saying. 

_Is he saying I stink?_

_That I’m not fit to grace the company of the great Ginevra Weasley?_

_Is that it?_

He tried to remember the last time he had bathed or changed his clothes. 

_I dunno._

_Not recently._

_I can’t, anyway._

_I’ve got this thing on my arm._

All the more proof that Malfoy was one twisted fuck. If he could fancy an unkempt, unwashed, underfed, crazy Harry Potter, that just went to show how much Malfoy was like his aunt Bellatrix Lestrange. 

“No,” he said to Neville blandly. “I’ll see her now.” 

Neville didn’t look too happy with this answer. 

_What are you going to do?_

_Throw me in the bath and then scrub me from a distance using a broom?_

Neville couldn’t force him to take a shower, or change his clothes or comb his hair. And neither could anyone else. 

Neville stood up and started walking back toward the staircase. He turned to make sure he was following. 

_Don’t worry._

_I’m coming._

He trudged back up the stairs and into the entrance hall, feeling like a kicked dog and probably looking like one too. “What does Ginny want to talk to me about?” He asked.

He shouldn’t really have asked if he didn’t want to hear the answer. And by this point he knew that Neville was going to give an honest answer because that was the kind of bloke he was. 

“Your role in the Hogwarts School massacre,” Neville replied, with neither relish nor disapproval in his voice. 

_I think I’m going to be sick._

He could feel his heart starting to beat faster. His vision getting blurry at the edges. He wondered if he was going to collapse. He forced himself to take a deep breath. If he had another panic attack now, no-one here would know what to do. Ron hadn’t known what was going on. Ron had made it worse. Far worse—telling him to calm down and grabbing him and all of that. 

_Malfoy knew what to do._

He forced himself to focus on Neville’s calm, steady presence. Neville was like a rock. He was starting to understand why it could be useful to have a chap like Neville around. “When did you get to be like this, Neville?” He asked, to distract himself from what he was feeling. 

Neville waited for him at the top of the stairs, then shut the door behind them. Neville looked at him. “I learned it from you, actually.” 

He frowned. 

_From me?_

Maybe Neville hadn’t understood. 

“You used to be be kind of a cry-baby,” he said. “Now you’re, like, a poster boy for Gryffindor.” 

Neville blinked. “Thank you?” He said uncertainly. “Like I said, Harry, I learned it from you. From the way that you formed the DA and inspired all of us. From the way you kept going even when the odds were stacked against you.”

“Th-thank you, Neville,” he said, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. 

Neville looked back at him. “You were my hero, Harry.” 

“I was?” Emphasis on the _was_. “Am I… not anymore?” 

_Why did I just ask that?_

Neville shook his head. “No, Harry. I’m sorry.” 

“What—” he said. His vocal cords seemed to have constricted. “Why?” 

Neville gazed at him, put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go and talk to Ginny, eh?” 

He considered getting his wand out. He considered duelling Neville. He considered running away. The door to the street was right there. 

_I could be on my own._

_Check into a hotel._

He still had a lump of cash in his pocket which Auntie had given him. 

_I could do that._

_I would be alone. Completely alone._

Or he could face Ginny, and Neville, and the rest of them. 

_Your role in the Hogwarts School massacre._

He swallowed with difficulty. “Okay,” he said to Neville. 

Neville pointed to the grand staircase which wrapped around the inside of the entrance hall. “This way,” he said. 

He followed Neville slowly up the stairs. As he climbed, he saw that people were standing at the top of the stairs. They were standing along the landing at the top of the stairs, flanking a set of grand double doors which were closed. Members of Dumbledore’s Army. He saw Luna, Dean, Alicia, Seamus, George, Lavender.

He saw Ron. 

_It’s a real army, isn’t it?_

_They aren’t just kids playing around._

They stood there, at attention like soldiers, and none of them looked at him. He could feel that he was starting to shake and tremble. He could feel his heart starting to beat faster.

_I’m here_

_I’m here with you_

_Breathe in. Count with me. One, two, three, four, five._

_Hold your breath._

_Now, let it out._

_Slowly._

George and Luna each opened one door and he walked through into a spacious, high-ceilinged room. There wasn’t much furniture, just a parquet floor and a wall covered in mirrors and a chandelier hanging from the cornice-covered ceiling. Ginny was standing looking out of the window, her weight on one leg, long red pony tail swaying ever so slightly. When the door closed behind him, she turned around and walked toward him. 

“Harry,” she said, meeting his eyes. 

“Hey, Ginny,” he said weakly. 

Neville stood off to one side, his hands behind his back. 

She stood there for a moment, facing him, arms behind her back. Then she turned to Neville and gave him her wand. 

_Oh, am I supposed to give up my wand?_

_What do you think, we’re going to duel?_

Ginny and Neville were both looking at him, waiting. He took his wand from the waistband of his trousers and handed it to Neville. 

_There._

“Am I under arrest?” 

“Yes,” Ginny said, meeting his eyes. Her face was hard. Her eyes glittered. 

She glanced at Neville, then bowed her head, as if thinking or considering. Then she stood up straight again and pulled a piece of parchment from her back pocket. She started to read. “I, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, do hereby grant Ginevra Weasley the authority to take an initial statement from Harry James Potter regarding the events which took place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on the night of May first to second, nineteen ninety-eight. This statement will be recorded for further investigation when Harry Potter is returned to Great Britain.” 

He crossed his arms tightly, and said nothing. 

Ginny put the piece of parchment back in her pocket. “Let’s sit down,” she said. There were three chairs and a low table set up nearby. On the table were a jug of water and three glasses. 

“I’ll stand,” he replied shortly. 

Ginny shrugged and she and Neville sat down in the chairs. This left him standing some way away, but he didn’t make any effort to move. He was remembering what Ginny had said to him the last time he saw her. The last time he saw her properly, before all of this started. It had been on his birthday, and she had invited him into her room and wished him a happy seventeenth birthday.

_I'd like you to have something to remember me by, you know, if you meet some Veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing._

It was a strange choice of words. Why would she think he would meet a Veela? Veela weren’t native to Britain. 

_Why did she talk about Veela?_

This was going to drive him crazy. Why had Ginny warned him about going off with Veela?

“Ginny,” he said. 

She sat up straighter in her chair and raised her eyebrows expectantly. 

“Why did you think I was going to meet a Veela while I was away?” 

Ginny did a double take, closed her eyes, shook her head. “ _What_?” 

“On my birthday,” he said. “Before you _snogged_ _me_ —”

Ginny’s eyes hardened into marble. 

“You said it was in case I met a _Veela—_ ”

“And did you meet a Veela, Harry?” She said a voice that could strip paint. 

 _No, there_ are no _male Veela._  

_Duh, Ginny._

And what had she said next? 

_There’s that silver lining I’ve been looking for._

_Silver_ lining _?_

 _Veela have silver eyes, silver hair. Not silver_ lining. 

“I hope you and the Veela will be very happy together,” she said blandly. “Can we get to the statement now?” 

“I just don’t understand why you used _that choice of words_ ,” he pressed. “Why not say, _in case you meet a fit witch_ , or—”

“I thought it was an appropriate example at the time,” Ginny said acidly. “I didn’t foresee that months later you would have developed such an extreme sensitivity to Veela-based metaphors.”

“Well, now you know,” he retorted, just to have something to say in response. 

“This is your opportunity to give a statement about the evening of May first,” Ginny said. 

He waited. “And…” 

She looked at him. “Don’t you have anything to say?” 

“Not really,” he replied. 

“Let me make this easier for you. _Why_ did you come to Hogwarts School on the evening of May first?” Ginny said. He noticed that Neville was holding up his wand and wondered if he was somehow recording the conversation. 

“I had to,” he replied, “as part of my mission to kill Voldemort.”

“You’re going to need to be more specific,” Ginny said. 

“You know what?” He said. “Actually, I don’t really feel like answering your questions.” 

Ginny stood up. “Really?” 

He stared back at her. “Really.” 

Neville stood up, slowly. 

Ginny stepped forward, out of the cluster of table and chairs. “Why is that?” 

“I was on a mission from Dumbledore,” he said. “It’s privileged information.” 

Ginny’s face was rapidly reaching the same colour as her hair. “Privileged information,” she breathed. 

Neville had been slowly making his way up behind Ginny. Now he put his hand on her shoulder. She put her own hand on his shoulder and turned her face half toward him, as if his very presence was calming. “I s’pose you’ve seen the Daily Prophet,” Neville said to him. “We weren’t sure.” 

“I’ve been a bit busy to read newspapers,” he said, looking at his nails. “I’ve actually spent the last ten months _trying to kill the most evil wizard who ever lived_ , not, you know, chasing Veela or, er,” his eyes lingered on Ginny’s hand, tightly gripping Neville’s on her shoulder, “looking for opportunities to pull.” 

Ginny’s eyes flashed, but Neville remained impassive. “You’re lucky Neville is such a good man,” Ginny hissed. “He should give you a pounding for that.” 

“Gin, don’t bother with it,” Neville rumbled. “So you haven’t read them?” Neville asked him. 

“Shacklebolt’s a bloody good choice for Minister in my opinion. He’s a brilliant Auror. All-around nice bloke.”

“Anything else?” Neville asked. 

“Not really,” he said airily.

_They’re not going to make me say it._

“You know what Hermione told me, Harry?” Ginny said suddenly. “She told me that your problem is all the people you love are dead.”

“Jesus Christ, Ginny,” he said. He couldn’t believe what she had just said. “When did you turn into such a _bitch_?” 

“You didn’t even _know_ Mad-Eye Moody,” she spat, flinging Neville’s hand from her shoulder. “Most of the time you knew him, he was actually a Death Eater in Polyjuice. But then he becomes your hero and when he dies you’re all torn up?” 

“Where is _this_ coming from?” He said in disbelief. 

She narrowed her eyes. “Once people are dead they’re safe, aren’t they? They can’t ignore you or abandon you or Merlin forbid, _disagree_ with you.”

He blinked several times. 

_I don’t know what you’re talking about._

“You barely saw Sirius four or five _times_ but when he died it was like he was your _dad_ or something—”

“Shut up,” he said thickly. “Just shut up.”

“You’re very big on dead people, Harry, much more than you are on living ones, I think,” she said. 

_That’s so unfair._

“That’s why I broke up with _you_ ,” he gasped. “To keep you safe. Because he would have targeted you.” 

She turned away, muttering. 

“What did you say?” He said. “What did you say?” He said it louder. 

She turned around. “I said you’re full of shit!”  

Neville had his arms folded. “Ginny, I don’t know if you should be taking this statement.” 

“My brother is dead!” She shouted. “I want some _fucking_ answers!” 

“He’s not going to say what you want to hear,” Neville said. 

“Yes he is,” Ginny turned on him. “ _Yes you are_ , Harry Potter.” 

He stared at her. “How come you hate me so much all of a sudden? I didn’t kill Fred, Ginny.” 

She stared back at him, wide-eyed, for a long moment, and then she turned away very slowly and started walking away. As she passed Neville she paused and said quietly, “You’re right, Neville. Can you take his statement, please.” And then she walked out of the room, the soles of her boots clacking on the wooden floor, and the doors closed behind her. 

“Harry,” Neville said. “Do you want to give your statement now, or later?” 

He crossed his arms tightly. “Now.” 

“Well, if you’re not going to sit down, I am,” Neville said. “And I should have said this earlier, I am going to record this conversation for Shacklebolt and the Aurors.” 

“Fine,” he said tightly. 

Neville repeated Ginny’s question. “Why did you come to Hogwarts School on the evening of May first?” 

He repeated his answer. “I had to as part of my mission to kill Voldemort.” 

“Could you be more specific, please?” 

“No,” he said again, testily. “Dumbledore gave me this mission and the details are confidential.”

“Is there anything else you would like to say in your defence?” Neville intoned in an emotionless voice. 

“Er… I don’t understand why everyone is upset with me,” he said. “I was only doing what Dumbledore told me to do in order to kill Voldemort.” 

Neville spoke into his wand like a microphone. “This concludes the statement of Harry James Potter, taken on this day in May, nineteen ninety-eight, by Neville Longbottom.” 

Neville put his wand back up his sleeve. 

“Do you understand all this, Neville?” He asked, because Neville seemed to be a sensible sort of guy, who would see the logic behind things and not get all emotional. “ _You_ see how silly it all is, don’t you? I know you’re just doing this for Ginny’s sake. She’s upset about Fred, and who can blame her.”

Neville stared at him, his face expressionless. “But don’t you see, Harry. It could have been done without all that bloodshed. It could have been done without all that killing. It could have been done without turning into a massacre.” 

He stared back at Neville. “N—no it couldn’t.” 

“That’s for the Wizengamot to decide,” Neville said, standing up. “I’ll show you to your room.” Neville glanced at him. “I’ll apologise in advance for putting you in the basement. We had to find somewhere fireproof, after all.” 

*

He was lying on the bed in the room they had given him downstairs, next to the kitchen. It had a bed, a table, a chair, an ensuite. The walls and floor were all made of pale stone. He had been lying here without moving for some time now. 

It was a bit like being back at the Dursleys’ in the summer. There had been those summers when he had just lain on his bed all day, staring into space. A bit like Auntie used to when she got ill. Except he hadn’t been ill, of course. 

_And now I’m sick._

If Malfoy could pop into his head in the middle of a conversation with Ginny about the last time they snogged, that had to be a really bad sign. 

_If you meet some Veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing_

_There’s the silver lining I’ve been looking for._

But the silver lining for Ginny apparently, had been that she was back at school surrounded by boys while he was in the woods, shivering and eating raw mushrooms. 

_Why would she go out with Neville?_

_Why?_

Neville, the fat cry-baby who was always losing his toad. He remembered that kid from first year. 

_Why would Ginny choose him?_

_You were my hero, Harry._

He just didn’t understand why they had all turned against him. Why they were blaming him for the Battle of Hogwarts. 

_I did absolutely nothing wrong._

_I only did what I was told._

_That’s all._

In his mind’s eye he could see the dead lined up along the floor in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. He could see Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Snape, and little Colin Creevey. 

_Only what I was told._

In his mind’s eye he could see Neville and Ginny.

_If you meet some Veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing._

In his mind’s eye he could see Malfoy creep through the door and close it behind him. In his mind’s eye he could see Malfoy climb onto the bed and start crawling toward him, his limbs long, his movements languid, the vampire kiss glittering in his eyes. 

_There’s that silver lining I’ve been looking for._


	80. Antonin Dolohov

**Draco**

“By Grindelwald’s golden…” Yaxley stared at him in shock for several long moments, then opened the door wider without taking his eyes off him and shouted, “Antonin!”   
****

Yaxley reached out a hand to chivvy him inside, but he walked inside willingly and shrugged off his hand. Pansy followed. Yaxley shut the door and muttered an incantation at it under his breath, his wand moving jerkily.

Then Yaxley turned to him and, with another jerk of his wand, sent cords whipping around his wrists, binding them together. He raised his hands and looked at them. They were made of pink velvet, with tassels trailing at the ends. 

Yaxley took one look at him and let out a roar of laughter. 

“Hilarious,” he muttered. 

Yaxley took the wands off him and Pansy and placed them in a towering glass vase on an end table in front of a mirror. 

“Come on, our son,” Yaxley put an arm around his shoulders and started leading him out of the grand double-height vestibule, dripping with crystal and gold curlicues. “You ever been to Antonin’s?” 

“No,” he muttered. 

Far from the dark, forbidding interior he had expected, this place was brand new—he could have sworn he smelled fresh paint—ostentatious, festooned in wealth, and, quite frankly, _kitsch_. 

_New money._

He could just see Father wrinkling his nose in distaste. 

They passed a water feature made of jet black marble with two enormous golden centaurs riding a crest of tinkling water and he could barely hold in his laughter. 

_Not a House Elf in sight, I notice._

Oh, he and Father would be having a good laugh about this later. 

_If there is a later._

Yaxley kept pointing at horrendous bits of tat and describing their sourcing and construction. He could hear music, all of a sudden, and then they emerged into an enormous room flooded with light as one entire wall was a bank of french windows which had been pulled back to give onto a wide terrace. “Lads!” Yaxley shouted, and the Servants sprinkled around the room looked up and saw him, and let out a cheer of approval, raising hammy fists in the air. 

_Oh…my…Hecate…_

There was Nott, shaking a cocktail shaker behind an enormous bar installed in one corner of the room. There were Mulciber and Avery, cues in hand, leaning on the green felt of a sleek, shining new snooker table. There was Mulciber, carefully aiming at a darts board installed on the wall. And there were Alecto and Amycus Carrow, squabbling over a bank of blinking, plinking Muggle fruit machines. He walked down the two or three steps which led into the lounge.

“Drake,” Nott called, waving him over. He had his robe half-unbuttoned to reveal a heavy, hairy, middle-aged chest. He was shaking the cocktail shaker like a bartender in an an old London hotel. He took a glass from the row hanging above the bar, placed it on the counter and poured in the contents of the shaker with a flourish. “Manhattan,” he said with a wink. “Get that down your neck.” 

He didn’t trust himself to say anything, so he just nodded, picked up the martini glass with his pink velvet bound hands and carried it with him. Yaxley was trying to lead him outside, “You’ve got to see this, Drake, wait’ll you see this—”

_Ugh._

_I hate it when they call me ‘Drake’._

The terrace was tiled in white and led out into a huge, landscaped garden complete with—

_A pool??_

In the middle of the pool, floating on his back on a Lilo, wearing unfortunately tiny swimming trunks, dark sunglasses and listening to the Quidditch on a portable wireless, was Antonin Dolohov. 

_Oh…my…Hecate._

“Antonin!” Yaxley shouted, pointing at him eagerly. “Look who it is!” 

Dolohov turned his head briefly, raised his sunglasses half an inch, raised his hand in perfunctory greeting, and caused the pink velvet cords to come undone and fall into the grass. 

He stiffened, unsure what Dolohov was going to do next. But nothing happened. 

Dolohov had gone back to floating. He had a can of beer in his hand and was half-trailing it in the pool. 

“Draco!” 

_Father._

He turned to see Father standing behind an enormous, shiny barbecue, waving at him happily. He walked toward him, trying to stop himself from breaking into a run in relief. He had been half afraid, as he walked up here, that he would find Father dead in a pool of blood, surrounded by the corpses of Servants he had mown down in his last, desperate stand. 

But Father was wearing an apron and tending to a wide array of meats which were sizzling and cooking away on the hot grill. He had his hair tied back and looked relaxed and happy. He noticed a glass of amber liquid at his father’s elbow. 

_Ah._

And his pipe, curling smoke, in an ashtray next to that. 

_Ah…_

Father clapped an arm around his shoulder. “Are you going to help your old Dad with the meat? Eh?” Then in an undertone Father hissed into his ear, “What the _fuck_ are you doing, here, Draco, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Er…” he really didn’t know what to say. 

“Miss Parkinson,” Father said, spying Pansy. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

Pansy looked uncomfortable. “Erm…” she trailed off in a high-pitched voice. 

_I guess I’ll be taking care of Pansy the rest of the day, then…_

“I’m going to get changed,” she said. “For the pool. Er…” and she wandered off back inside the house. 

“Dad, what is going _on_?” He hissed, looking at the Servants sprawling around the place. 

“Top ups?” Nott came out of the house. “Top up, Lucius?” 

Father held out his glass. “We can start eating,” he said to Nott.

“Right-o,” said Nott. “I’ll just bring out the rest of it. Give me a hand, Drake?” 

“I _know_ this isn’t your mother’s idea,” Father said under his breath, glaring at him. Father clapped a hand heartily on his back again, using this as an excuse to lean in and whisper, “Get out of here. _Now._ Draco.” 

“Nott asked me to help him,” he muttered, and followed Nott back into the house, through the lounge and to the bar, where Nott started suspending bowls and platters of food into the air. “Been enjoying yourself, have you?” Nott muttered. 

“Er…sorry?” He said, feeling a stab of anxiety. 

Nott leaned over the counter and fixed his black, slightly bulbous eyes on him. A glass bowl of mixed greens floated over his shoulder to join the others. “What have you been saying to ’em, eh? You been telling porky pies?” 

_Oh, Hecate._

“Of course,” he drawled as confidently as he could. “I brought them here, didn’t I? I knew you lads would want another go.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Now they’re far from home and there’s no mummy and daddy for them to go crying to.” 

Nott grinned slowly and raised a hairy-knuckled finger and pointed it at him. “I always thought you were a clever boy,” he growled. 

_Ugh._

_I could be sick all over you, you nasty little man._

He raised his wand and starting guiding the collection of plates and bowls through the room and outside onto the terrace. “Watch out,” he said, trying to sound cocky and cheerful. “It’s your dinner, chaps, don’t make me upset it—”

He got everything outside and started lowering it onto the huge table which dominated the terrace. It could probably sit twenty people. 

“Very good,” Dolohov said, watching him. He was standing there dripping onto the tiles, wearing a white terrycloth robe from which his round paunch protruded like a Quaffle. He was holding a thick cigar in one hand and running one finger around his lips over and over again. 

_Ugh._

_He’s so disgusting._

“Everybody,” Dolohov clapped his hands and shouted. “We eat. Come!” Then he walked over to the chair at the head of the table and sat down. Water was dripping down the hair on his deeply tanned chest. “Drake, you sit here—” He indicated the chair next to him. 

_Fuck._

He glanced at Father, who had come out from behind the barbecue with an enormous patter of sausages, burgers and half-chickens floating in front of him. The expression on his face was frozen, hard as marble or ice. It was the expression his Father took on when he was trying to hide some powerful emotion. 

_Hecate’s hump._

He needed to speak to Father alone, but there was no way they were going to let that happen. Not now. He sat down at Dolohov’s right. Everyone else was taking their places. Many of them had abandoned their heavy black robes for more casual, if still traditional, clothing. Only the Carrows were still wearing their black robes, tatty and wrinkled and stained.

_What gutter did they find those two in?_

When everyone was sitting down, and all the food was on the table, all of the Servants went silent and then, one by one, all looked up at Dolohov expectantly. 

“Drake,” Dolohov jerked his head at him and gestured at a bottle of spirits sitting at Dolohov’s elbow. “You give,” he nodded around the table. 

He noticed that in front of each Servant as part of their place setting, was a small glass. He took the bottle of spirits and started going around, filling up everyone’s glass with the light-gold coloured liquid. He got to Dolohov last, and had to stop breathing in to prevent Dolohov’s stench of cologne, tanning oil and man-flesh from making him retch. 

When he sat down again, Dolohov raised his tiny glass and said, “You are welcome. There is no corpse above you now. Drink! Eat! Živjeli!”

This received a mixed response, with Yaxley bravely crying, “Jeevely!” in response, while most of the others muttered “Cheers,” in a self-conscious way. 

He drank the rakija in one gulp. It was clearly homemade, and rather nice. Unfortunately the man who served it was not. 

Dolohov put down his glass and everyone started helping themselves to food. He watched Father’s face with amusement. 

 _He is_ not _used to serving himself at table._

“You left some of that raw, for me, I hope,” a growl came from behind him and he felt the hair on his neck stand up. He didn’t turn around. 

“Talk to chef,” Dolohov gestured at Father, whose eyes came to rest on Greenback for a fraction of a second before he stood up and went behind the grill. 

Greyback slunk to the end of the table and lay down in the grass like a dog. He took one glance and then forced himself to focus on his empty plate. Greyback was unclothed, partially covered in long, grey fur, and there was blood on the back of his hand as if he’d just wiped his mouth. Father emerged from behind the grill with a metal bowl which he overturned in front of Greyback. It was filled with ground meat. Greyback fell on it as if he was starving. 

Dolohov took one look and started laughing. His tight, rotund belly started bouncing up and down. 

_Oh, Hecate’s hump._

_Save me._

It was such a disgusting sight he wished he could just get into the pool and swim back to England. 

When Dolohov had finished laughing at Greyback, he poured him another shot of rakija. “Do you like it? Aniseta. Very traditional.” Dolohov was speaking in Croatian now. 

_That’s why he wanted me to sit next to him._

_He wants to say something to me and have no-one else understand._

He eyed the drink. 

_Is it poisoned? Drugged?_

Dolohov poured himself a shot and held it up. “Let’s drink, okay, Drake? Or should I call you Drago?” 

_Please don’t call me._

_Just don’t._

He raised his glass and, trying not to grimace, looked Dolohov in the eye. 

“Živjeli,” Dolohov grinned. 

“Živjeli,” he replied. Their glasses clinked together and he downed the second shot. 

“Another one,” Dolohov said, pouring them each a third shot with relish. 

_Oh, fuck_

_Is this some kind of last-man-standing Balkan drinking stand-off?_

His hesitation must have showed in his face, because Dolohov laughed and said, “Come on. Time to show you’re a man.” 

_Do you have doubts?_

_I’d love to show you, but…_

_You want to get Draco Malfoy drunk?_

_Try to catch me off my guard?_

_You ever heard the expression—_

_Watch out, there’s a sting in the tail?_

“So,” Dolohov said, leaning toward him and putting his elbows up on the table. His huge cigar rained ash down gently on the table. “Your friends are in the city.” 

His heart started to pound. 

_This is never going to work._

_Oh, Hecate._

“They’re not my friends,” he replied lightly, keeping his face impassive. 

He continued to engage Dolohov, forcing himself to make eye contact on a regular basis. He had tucked his chair into the table as far as it would go, so that his stomach was almost flush with the table and his lower body was hidden from those around him. This was going to be very difficult. He had never done wandless magic like this before. He wasn’t even sure if he would be able to do it. 

“Not your friends, eh?” Dolohov let out a puff of brownish smoke. 

With all of his being, he willed one of the glass bottles in his pocket to creep out and start travelling down his leg underneath the table. “No,” he said. “Of course not.” 

Dolohov eyed him, then poured them each another glass of aniseta. “Maybe one of them is,” he said, quirking one eyebrow. 

_Yeah, or maybe not._

If Dolohov just wanted to rib him about the Potter rumours, he could go right ahead. He was way past caring. The potion bottle had made it onto this thigh. He could feel it, clinging on like a limpet to the fabric of his robes. Dolohov tried to clink glasses with him, forcing him to pick up the shot glass. 

_Another one in the hole._

If he had known this was going to happen, he would have taken a potion to stop him absorbing all the alcohol.

_I’m just glad I learned to keep up with Father over the past year._

He concentrated as hard as he could on making the potion bottle travel down his leg. He lost his concentration and it fell, dropping on to the tiled floor with a tinkling sound. 

_Hecate._

_Did anyone hear that?_

But no-one seemed to have. He could feel himself starting to sweat with the exertion of trying to move the bottle through his willpower alone. 

“This Potter,” Dolohov said, “he’s your friend, right?” 

He could feel the bottle start to inch itself along the tiles. He couldn’t see it. But he could feel it. It inched, inched—and then it hit something. He glanced to his left. Yaxley was slouching in his seat, stuffing sausages into his face. 

_I bet he’s got his legs stretched out underneath the table._

He fake-retched, once—twice—and then doubled over, as if he was about to vomit. As soon as his head was down he took the opportunity to look underneath the table. Sure enough, the potion bottle was stuck against one of Yaxley’s chubby, pink bare feet. But beyond that, he could see a clear path down the middle of the table to where Father sat on the far opposite side. 

_Perfect._

_Lucky it’s such a big table._

He straightened up again. “I’m alright,” he said. “False alarm.” 

Dolohov looked slightly contemptuous. “You should study at Durmstrang,” he said. “They’d teach you how to drink like a man.” 

He suddenly wished he had brought his _You’re Gorgeous_ tank top and hot pants. 

_We could start a new calendar._

_Death Eaters: Servants Gone Wild._

_I’ll splash about in that hideous water feature of yours._

Dolohov pointed his cigar at him. “You know these children of the Light?”

At least, that was apparently how you said _Lightbunnies_ in Croatian. He’d never expected his nickname for do-goody Gryffindors to catch on among the Reptile’s supporters, but apparently it had… 

“No,” he said. “I don’t know them. I was just with Harry Potter for three days.” 

“Yes, yes, okay,” Dolohov smiled. He waved his arm to indicate the Servants assembled around the table. “We want to have a good time tonight. Have some entertainment.” 

“Entertainment?” He felt fear take root in the pit of his stomach. The potion bottle stopped inching its way across the tiles.

_I don’t like the sound of that._

“Yes, entertainment,” Dolohov’s smile widened. “You, Drako. You’re a funny boy.” 

_Funny?_

He was getting the creeps. Dolohov’s pale blue eyes were looking at him like a snake eyeing up its next meal.

“Yes, you’re really funny. We love your story, the shower story. Very funny.” 

“It’s not—it’s not my story—” 

Dolohov held up his hand. “Listen, Drako. Look at these men,” he gestured around the table once more. “They’ve had a hard few days. A hard few months. Now they have a chance to relax, away from home, away from their wives. They’ve earned a break.” Dolohov took a long, slow draw on his cigar, then let the smoke billow out of his mouth. “Working for Riddle was no fun. Eh?” Dolohov looked at him, as if seeking confirmation. 

He stared back, not knowing what it would mean if he nodded ‘yes’. He had the uncomfortable feeling he would be agreeing with something he really, really didn’t want to agree with. 

Dolohov looked at the Servants once more. “No fun. But tonight, we’ll have fun. And _you_ ,” Dolohov said, stabbing the cigar in his direction, “will have fun.”

“I—I will?” 

Dolohov grinned. He leaned forward and said in an undertone—even though no-one else could understand what they were saying anyway—“I know the shower story isn’t true, Drago. You made us laugh with your little lie. But no more lies from Drago.” 

His heart was pounding. 

_What is he saying?_

“Tonight,” Dolohov said, “you show us what happened in the shower.” 

He was staring at Dolohov in horror. In abject, disbelieving horror. 

_Don’t let him see it._

_Don’t let him see the fear._

But his face was as impassive as if he’d been made of stone. 

Dolohov sat back in his chair and put his arms behind his head as if he was incredibly satisfied with himself. “Tonight we’ll bring Harry Potter here,” he said. “And you’ll show us what you did to him in the shower.” 


	81. You Haven't Given Up, Have You?

**Harry**

There was a knock on the door. “Harry?”

It was Ron. 

He didn’t know how long he had been lying here. Had he drifted off to sleep? “Yeah?” He replied. 

“Can I come in?” 

“Sure,” he replied. 

Ron slipped in through the door and closed it behind him. “They let me come and see you,” he said. 

“What, you had to ask permission?” He muttered. 

_What is wrong with Ron?_

He knew Ron wanted to be included in this and do what everyone else in his family was doing, but… having to ask permission to visit your best friend? Ron was acting more like a Hufflepuff than a Gryffindor in his opinion. 

Ron sat down on the edge of the bed. “You alright?”

He shrugged, but it wasn’t very effective since he was lying down. 

“So, er…” Ron said. “What’s up?” 

“I’m locked in a room,” he said. “So…not much.” 

“Harry,” Ron said urgently. “You haven’t given up, have you?” 

_I beg your pardon?_

He raised himself on his good arm and looked at Ron. “Given up?” 

_I’ve just been arrested, Ron._

“You’re…” Ron gestured vaguely at him, lying down, in the middle of the day, in a locked, bare room. Then he said, in a brighter tone, “What have you been up to since, er—?”

“Since our night on the piss?” 

“Yeah,” Ron said. 

“I had to sneak out of here at six in the morning,” he said. 

“Yeah, I know,” Ron said, looking sheepish. “I’ve sort of been in the doghouse since then.” 

“You’re in the doghouse for having a laugh with your best mate?” He said incredulously. “Ron, Dumbledore’s Army are a load of wankers. Admit it.” 

Ron pursed his lips. “No…I deserved it.”

_Ugh._

_I can’t listen to much more of this._

Where was his friend Ron, the one who was actually there for him? 

_The Ron who’s loyal to me?_

“We shouldn’t have done that, Harry,” Ron said. “It was irresponsible.” 

“You started it,” he retorted. “You _said_ you wanted to get pissed.” 

“Yeah, well…” Ron muttered. 

“Why were you in that abandoned house, anyway?” He asked. “It seemed like you two were the last ones left.” 

“I was put on clean up detail,” Ron said. “Lavender elected to join in to keep me company. I… Ginny wasn’t happy about me bringing you to the headquarters the other day.” 

He scoffed. “The Ministry made me—what was it called—Undesirable Number One? Is Ginny doing the same thing now?”

“Harry, people could have been hurt,” Ron said reproachfully. “You could have set a fire in an old wooden house _filled_ with people.” 

He clenched the sheets and his jaw. “I _didn't_ —”

“If you’re doing involuntary magic like that,” Ron said, “you shouldn’t even be out and about. Mum said you need to see a Healer.” 

“I _told_ you I needed help!" He barked. "I told you that when you brought me to that house, and then what happened? You booted me out on my bum on the street!" Then, with a resentful glance. "You told your _mother_?” 

“Of course,” Ron said uncomfortably. 

_Wow._

_Great._

“So, what, does the entire Weasley family hate me now?” He said, and found his throat constricting painfully. 

_Fred is dead._

Ron blinked at him, apparently struck dumb. 

 _Fred Weasley_ died. 

“You weren’t at the funeral,” Ron croaked. 

_Funeral._

Aberforth had said something to him about funerals. In the Hog’s Head.

_I think he'd have counted on you to be there at their funerals, Harry._

_To pay your respects. Say good-bye._

_Give thanks... for their sacrifice._

He had thought that was a bit out of line at the time, and he still thought it was. It was really none of Aberforth’s business what he did. Aberforth wasn’t Dumbledore. He’d barely even _heard_ of Aberforth until just recently, and now suddenly he was giving out advice about what Dumbledore would think he should be doing?

_I needed to go after the Death Eaters._

But now it was however many days later and he still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of a Death Eater. 

_Yes you have._

_You saw Lucius Malfoy._

Well, that was different. That was… the point _was_ , Malfoy hadn’t led him to the Death Eaters, as he had promised to.

_I did my best._

He _was the one who didn’t follow through on his promise._

“Aren’t you even going to apologise?” Ron said. 

He felt a surge of anger and was strongly tempted to turn his back on Ron. But he stood his ground. 

_He’s not going to make me feel guilty._

“I think Fred would have wanted me to do exactly what I did,” he said. “After all, he died for the safety of witches and wizards everywhere and that’s only what I’m trying to protect.” 

“Right,” Ron said tightly. “Right…” But he didn’t sound as if he was really agreeing with him at all. 

“If you have something to say, just _say_ it,” he snapped, impatient. He sat up and looked Ron directly in the eyes. 

Ron stared back at him. “I defended you,” he said. “I defended you to them. And _this_ …” Ron rubbed his eye furiously, as if there was something in it. He took a deep breath and continued. “When Shacklebolt said you had spell damage and we needed to call the mediwizards, I argued with him. I stood up to _Kingsley Shacklebolt_ ,” Ron said, his face going red. His eyes looked very blue against his red cheeks. “He didn’t listen to me, of course. I tried to go after you on my own, just me and Hermione, but Ginny _insisted_ —she wouldn’t let us leave—”

“Is that your apology for the scene at the Hog’s Head?” He asked acidly. 

Ron started, staring back at him like a kicked puppy, but then his eyes hardened. “I left my own brother’s _funeral_ to go looking for you,” he muttered. 

“You left his _funeral_?” That seemed a bit harsh. He would have expected Ron to attend Fred’s funeral.

“I left the wake,” Ron said defensively. “I figured Fred wouldn’t care if I ate a few less cucumber sandwiches. I went to Grimmauld Place—I thought you might have gone there—”

He stared at Ron. “ _You_ went to Grimmauld Place?” 

“Yeah,” Ron said. “Of course you weren’t there. All I found was Kreacher. He told me that the Death Eaters were all heading for Albania.” 

Realisation was dawning. 

“And you went running back to Ginny and Neville and told them right away, did you?” 

“No!” Ron snapped. “Well,” he said. “I…” He sighed. “Yeah, I went back home. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to look, and it was really late. When I got back to the Burrow… I told them, yeah.” 

He scowled. “And then Ginny had the brilliant idea to one-up me by starting her own merry Death Eater chase.” 

Ron clutched handfuls of his hair as if he was trying to hold on to his sanity, or temper, or both. “It didn’t have to be like that, Harry!” His eyes were bulging. “I keep trying to tell you this.” 

“I had Malfoy,” he said. “ _Malfoy_ had the connections to lead me to the Death Eaters. _Ginny_ ,” he went on, “had _nothing_.” 

Ron stared at him. “Why do you see it that way? Why couldn’t you bring Malfoy along with us? We could have used Malfoy as bait, or Merlin knows what. See what I mean? If we had worked together?” 

_Work together?_

_With her?_

_After what she said?_

_Fat fucking chance._

“Why do you put up with Ginny?” He asked. “She’s treating you like shit.” 

Ron’s cheeks were dull red. “Maybe you should ask why I put up with you.” 

_I’m sorry?_

He stared at Ron in disgust. “How dare you.” 

Ron looked at him. “So I wanted to get pissed the other night. I wanted to—” Ron paused, swallowed. “I wanted to forget about it all. You know? I wanted it to be the way it was. Before.” 

He sighed. “Yeah. Me too.” 

Ron locked his fingers together. “Tell me about Malfoy,” he said. 

“Malfoy?” 

“Yeah,” Ron said. “What have you done with him?” 

_What have I done with him?_

_I haven’t done anything with Malfoy!_

_Are you mad?_

_I would_ never _do_ anything _with Malfoy._

_I’m not—I don’t, you know that, Ron—_

“Did you find out where the Death Eaters’ base is?” Ron said quietly. 

_Oh._

_Oh, of course that was what Ron meant._

He could have slapped himself. He _should_ slap himself. 

Hard.

Until he knocked Malfoy right out of his head. 

Ron leaned forward. “Did you find out what their plans are?” 

He had been waiting for this moment. He _knew_ that Dumbledore’s Army didn’t have a map in a maze, that they didn’t have the first clue where to start looking for Death Eaters. But now all of his ideas about being re-elected leader of Dumbledore’s Army, of being made the youngest Auror ever—suddenly rang hollow. 

_Kingsley Shacklebolt has been made Minister for Magic._

_And he… wants to arrest me._

Kingsley was supposed to be shaking his hand, thanking him for everything he had done in service of wizardkind. 

_Kingsley blames me._

_Does he blame me for Tonks’ death?_

_Oh…_

Kingsley blamed him for Tonks’ death. And Kingsley had blown it up to blame him for the entire Battle of Hogwarts. 

_I expected more from Kingsley._

_I expected more from all of them…_

_I expected more from the wizarding world…_

It was as if, at the drop of a hat, his entire world had been reversed. Right had been made wrong. Light had been made dark. Good had been tainted with the stain of evil. And all of that had happened at the moment of his death, when everything was supposed to be fixed once and for all. 

Now he was looking at Ron, and he was suspicious. 

_Is he asking so that he can go and pass what I tell him back to Ginny?_

He didn’t say anything, and Ron must have read his thoughts, because he said, “Harry, you’re right. Ginny has been taking it out on me. She’s been in a towering rage for days, and I mean that—just constant, never giving it a rest—I mean,” he said. “She’s really cut up over Fred.”

_You’re not that bleeding special, Harry Potter!_

_What, do you have a death wish or something?_

_Have you not died enough already, can’t wait to do it again?_

_Newsflash for you Harry—you might not come back next time._

“That’s not an excuse is it, though?” He snapped. 

“Hang about,” Ron said loudly, “do you have _any_ idea what you were like after Sirius—passed on? Harry, do you have _any_ idea?” Ron wiped his mouth. 

_That was different._

_I never had anyone else._

_I had_ no-one.

You _have a whole family of nine people._

_Harry, sweetheart._

_Come give Auntie a cuddle._

_No!_

He pushed that thought from his mind firmly. That was all over with. He had finished with that. He was never going to see any of them ever again, and that was exactly how it should be.

“Look,” Ron said. “I came to talk to you because I’m getting to the end of my tether with Ginny. I need to prove—prove to her that…I’m worth something. That I’m worthy of being in Dumbledore’s Army.” 

“What _is_ it with everyone and Ginny?” He retorted. “It’s like she’s _Dumbledore_ all of a sudden or something.” 

Ron raised his eyebrows. “That’s a bit strong, Harry. No-one’s saying she’s _Dumbledore_.” Ron frowned. “Harry, you need to talk to her properly. I can’t say anything else.” 

He stared at Ron. “What do you mean, _talk to her properly_ and you _can’t say anything else_? She and Neville just _took a statement_ from me to send to the Wizengamot.” 

Ron crossed his arms. “I’m not involved in that, Harry” he said. Ron pulled himself forward on the bed, coming closer. “Harry,” he said. “I lost my deputy position because I got pissed and let you in. I’m down to the lowest of the low, now. If you—if you consider me a friend _at all_ , _please_ help me. Please.” 

Ron’s blue eyes were boring into his. 

_He’s getting blamed too._

It dawned on him all of a sudden. If _he_ was being blamed for the Battle of Hogwarts, then Ron and Hermione must share some part of that blame. They had been with him the whole time. They had been with him for months. They had come with him to Hogwarts. 

_Ron wants to do something to redeem himself._

_So he has something to fall back on if he’s called before the Wizengamot._

_Is this what the world looks like after Dumbledore?_

Dumbledore had always protected him, spoken for him… and now he was gone, there was no-one left to do that. 

_So what does that mean?_

_I have to go crawling to Ginny and beg for her forgiveness?_

_So she can throw me a scrap and let me into Dumbledore’s Army to stand guard in front of her room?_

_I have to get Kingsley Shacklebolt’s stamp of approval?_

_Or my name is dirt, I have nothing, no-one, and no future?_

That future he’d dreamed of after the Battle seemed to be laughing in his face now, like a cruel mockery. 

_Nineteen years later._

_Yeah, right._

He looked at Ron. Ron looked unhappy, desperate, even, but what did he have to be so miserable about? Ron had a new girlfriend and a place in Dumbledore’s Army. He was set for life, surely. 

_I’m the one who needs help._

He would do it. But not for Ron. 

_Malfoy’s the one who spread those rumours._

Those rumours were at the heart of all of this. They had done something to—the way people saw him. They had changed something.

He thought of Draco Malfoy in that toilet stall with Moaning Myrtle. Malfoy’s scar, his anger, his tears.

_He’s the reason why I’m going down._

_And mark my words._

_I’m taking Draco Malfoy with me._

*

“Right,” said Ron. “No, alright. _Not_ right. I thought you had the cloak with you, Harry?”

He shook his head. He was starting to feel panicky. 

“Did you leave it at Hogwarts for safekeeping?” 

He shook his head. “I had it with me at the Hog’s Head,” he said. He didn’t say, _Malfoy and I Apparated together underneath it_. 

“Then what did you do with it?” 

“I think I… I think I lost it…” 

_I lost the Invisibility Cloak?_

_How could I lose the Invisibility Cloak?_

_That was my father’s cloak…_

Ron was gaping at him. “Bollocks. _Bollocks._ You can’t have lost it. That was—that was your prize possession.”

He shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “No, I can’t have lost it. It must be somewhere. I’m sure it’s safe.” He wiped his hand across his forehead. He was sweating. “But it’s not here.” 

Ron huffed. “I was counting on that to get us out of here unseen,” he said. “They’re keeping a close eye on me,” he admitted. “I had to sort of beg to be let in here. I said you needed to see a friendly face.” 

“So your plan was to come in here, let me out under the cloak…?” 

Ron shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“You didn’t think that if they took my wand, they would have taken my cloak as well?” 

“I dunno, Harry,” Ron said in a tone that was almost whining. “You’re the one with the big ideas, aren’t you?” 

“Who was that Death Eater they captured yesterday?” 

Ron frowned. “I didn’t catch his name. They’re all so interchangeable. I always forget who’s who. Black robes… not much personality to speak of. That sums up most of them.” 

He scratched his ear. “You’re not wrong there. Was he tall? Did you see what colour his hair was?”

He couldn’t admit to Ron that he had gotten essentially zero information out of Malfoy about where the Death Eaters were or what they were doing. The last thing he wanted was for Ron to start asking him a load of questions about what he and Malfoy had been doing for the past few days. 

“Er…tallish,” Ron said doubtfully. “Hair colour…no. I only saw him from behind.” 

“I think I know which one it is,” he said. “Just leave it to me. I have enough to go on now. Can you leave the door open behind you?” 

“Blimey,” Ron looked impressed. “You must have found out a lot about them. Maybe hooking up with Malfoy was a good idea after all.” 

_Hooking up?_

_No._

_There was no hooking up._

“I can’t leave the door open,” Ron said. “They’ll come and check on it. But…er, let me think of something. I’ll find a way.” Ron got up. “And…thanks Harry,” he said. “This means a lot.” 

The door closed behind Ron. 

 


	82. Kazimir Dolohov

**Draco**

Dolohov broke into raucous laughter, slapped his knee and clapped him on the shoulder so hard his eyes watered.   
****

“I got you,” he roared in Croatian. “I got you. You should have seen the look on your face. I got you, alright.” Dolohov’s hand gripped his shoulder like a vice. “Ah, Drago,” he wheezed, leaning his other hand on the table. “You’re funny. Come, you’re not eating.” Dolohov picked up a serving spoon. “Here. Try this octopus salad. We put out the British food for the British people, but you must try this Dalmatian specialty.”

He picked up his fork and started picking at it. 

“What’re you telling young Drake, Antonin?” Yaxley piped up. 

Dolohov glanced at him. “I tell Drake he must meet my son, show him good time.” 

_His son?_

“Oh, right, right,” Yaxley drawled as if he were trying to sound casual. “Yes, good idea, Antonin.” 

_What is he talking about?_

He tried to swallow a piece of octopus. It was like chewing on rubber. He actually liked octopus salad normally. But fear was eating away at his insides and making it impossible to eat or think straight. He took a deep breath and focused on getting the potion bottle moving again. He could feel it clink, clink, clink its way along the tiled floor. He had the sense it was about halfway there now. He daren’t look under the table again. Dolohov might take offence if he didn’t like the food. 

_That wasn’t a joke._

_Was it?_

_He’s really going to do that._

_He knows I’m an informer. He’s going to punish me for that._

_He has a plan._

_He’s going to bring Potter over here, somehow._

_And he’s going to… force me to act it out…_

_One final act of humiliation._

And then Dolohov was going to kill him. And he was going to kill Potter. 

He was getting chills of disgust all down his body. 

_That’s it…_

This was Dolohov’s push for power. He needed to secure the Death Eaters’ enduring loyalty.

_So he’s brought them here, to wine and dine them._

_And later on tonight, when everyone’s really in a party mood…_

_He’s going to seal his ascendancy._

What better way could there be to get rid of the upstart kid who had killed their Dark Lord than to kill him in turn, with everyone watching? And what better way to utterly destroy him before that than to have him publicly sodomised? Especially when the Servants had been laughing themselves silly over this idea for the last six months? Especially when the one doing the sodomising was the joke and scapegoat who had finally turned informer, and would afterward be killed for his crime? 

_Oh Hecate._

He could run. Father didn’t want him here—Father had probably realised what they were going to do and was terrified for him. He could leave. Right now. Excuse himself to visit the loo but slip out the front door instead. 

_California._

_Isn’t that where I want to go?_

He could go, he could be safe. Father would probably manage to bump off at least Greyback. He wasn’t under suspicion, so unless he did something really stupid like challenge Dolohov to a public duel, he would probably get away. And he could go to California and live there as an exile, in shame and lies and cowardice for the rest of his life. 

_Isn’t that how it’s been?_

_How can I change any of it?_

_I fucked up so much and for so long that there’s nothing I can do any more._

In the Romance of Pet and Nara, neither of them could have predicted what would happen to them in the future. How their lives would turn out. What they would be like, nineteen years in the future. Nineteen years ago, neither he nor Potter had even been conceived. 

_How can either of us know what the future holds in store?_

_What either of us will be like, nineteen years from now?_

He had been wrong to begrudge Potter his dream of a perfect Gryffindor future with Weasley. It had been mean-spirited. 

_Who am I to judge his hopes? His dreams?_

He had told himself he was going to bring good things into Potter’s life. That he was going to care about him, care for him. 

_Real love._

_Like Pet and Nara._

_I have to accept that he will never love me._

He could. He knew he could. He knew he could leave and leave Potter behind and learn to stop loving him from far, far away. But what he couldn’t bear was the idea that in nineteen years’ time, Potter would be telling his children, 

_There used to be a boy called Draco Malfoy._

_He was the most dishonourable person I ever met._

_He fled to America like a coward. And after he left, it turned out that he was even more of a liar and a coward than I thought he was._

_Now just see to it that you never, ever end up like Draco Malfoy._

He couldn’t bear that. It made his chest hurt. Because if there was one thing he had realised after finding out about Mum’s past and hearing Father’s story, it was that there was only one life. He had never realised that before. He had never realised he had a life to do anything with in the first place. But there was only one, and what he was doing now could damn him forever. There seemed to be so much time, but it would catch up with you in the end. His parents had no way to go back and change anything, which just made Time Travel pointless, in his opinion. 

_So I could leave._

Or he could stay here and try to prevent this from happening. He might be able to save Potter. He might be able to save himself.

_Did you think this was all a game?_

_Nothing to take too seriously?_

But if he survived, he knew that things would have to change. He would have to stop lying. He would have to come clean to Mum and Father. 

_I would have to come clean about everything._

No-one else could die believing his lies. No-one else. Not Father and not Potter. 

_But that scares me more than anything else._

He was using all his strength to just keep the potion bottle inching along underneath the table. It had to be two-thirds of the way there now. Didn’t it? Then he felt it. Someone had kicked the potions bottle—a foot, idly swinging? Or had someone realised what he was trying to do? He stood up quickly and muttered, “Be right back.” But the quickest route to the house was to his right, whereas he had been sending the bottle along the table to the left. 

He could see it out of the corner of his eye. A small, black, shining foreign body on the clean white tiles. 

_Fuck_

If anyone saw—he ducked his head, not daring to look at anyone, and walked quickly toward it. At the last moment, he pretended to slip, went down on his stomach and trapped it under his stomach. 

He could hear Dolohov’s laughter. “Drake, you can’t hold your liquor, can you?” 

He slipped his hand underneath his body, palmed the potion bottle, which was so small it fit in his palm, and put it in his pocket. All in one motion while he stood up and continued walking. 

_No-one saw._

He felt relief wash over him. But then he realised that Greyback was still lying on the grass not far away. He was the only person there who was in the perfect position to see a small glass bottle dragging itself along the ground of its own accord. To see it kicked out from under the table. The only person there who was in a position to see Draco Mafloy purposefully fall on the bottle and then stand up with no bottle. And Greyback was watching him. 

_Fuck._

He shifted his gaze away from Greyback, circled around the table and approached Father, the bottle ready in his palm. This was the only way he could think of it do it. He smiled at Father, came around his side and wrapped him in a hug from behind. Father laughed and play-wrestled with his arms, but he could tell Father knew there was a reason why he was being so affectionate in such a setting. Normally a meeting of Servants contained about as much affection as a rectal exam. He already had the potion bottle ready and trailed his hand over Father’s, who took it from his hand under the pretext of reaching his hand up to ruffle his hair in a rough and tumble fashion. “Get away with you,” Father laughed, pushing him away.

_Thank Hecate._

He continued walking toward the house. He’d risen from his seat on the pretext of visiting the toilet, so that was where he was going. 

“Malfoy,” Dolohov called from the head of the table. “Sons are a gift from the ancestors.” He raised his glass to Father. 

Father gave his signature cold smile which he used in public and raised his glass in return. “It is so,” he agreed. 

“To sons,” Dolohov said, and tipped back his head and poured rakija down his throat. 

“To sons,” Father agreed, and drank. 

He waited for a moment to see if he could go, or if this was the start of another twisted joke. “Drago,” Dolohov waved him over. 

_Oh, Hecate._

Dolohov kept waving him closer, then gripped the back of his neck with his deeply tanned hand. “When you are inside, go upstairs. I want you meet my son, Kazimir.” 

_He was serious about the son thing?_

_Oh, Hecate…_

_This man killed Sir._

_He killed Sir in such a way that he suffered an hour of agony before he died._

“Er, thank you,” he said, hating himself like the worm he was. “For this honour.” 

Dolohov patted his cheek and turned back to Yaxley, who looked like he wanted to move into the primo position, Draco’s empty seat. He turned and went back through the French windows, into the games room. The fruit machines were an interesting touch. 

_You would never see that in a wizarding house in Britain._

He picked his way through the maze of sofas with a sense of growing trepidation. He wished he hand his wand on him. It was at that exact moment that he realised he hadn’t seen Pansy Parkinson since she had left to change into her swimming costume. 

_Pansy._

_Oh, fuck._

What if something had happened to her? What if she’d gone upstairs and this son of Dolohov’s? If something had happened to Pansy… He realised he had broken into a near run and forced himself to slow down. 

_What if Dolohov has some plans for her as well?_

But Pansy hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just misguided. She wanted to please her father and that was why she had pestered him so much about joining the Servants over the past couple of years, even though Millie and the others had done everything they could to keep her away from him. 

_What if Dolohov has a part for her to play tonight?_

He was back in the bad taste vestibule. Stopping only to grab his wand from the glass vase by the door, which he stuffed up his sleeve along his forearm, he broke into a run now, since everyone was outside. He took the spiral staircase two at a time, trying to make his footsteps as light as possible. He didn’t want to alert Dolohov’s son to the fact that he was approaching. 

At the top of the stairs was a wide landing with corridors leading off in opposite directions. Someone had had the idea of carpeting the floors in animal print, with wall coverings to match. Leopard print in a dizzying variety of tones and textures threatened to blind him. Had he been in a less serious mood he would have been dying to show this to Father. He picked one hallway at random and started creeping along it. He couldn’t help but notice more than a passing resemblance to Malfoy Manor, if the Manor were brand new and had been designed by someone with less taste than someone who had lost their sense of smell. 

He picked up voices. A high, fluting laugh. 

_Pansy._

He turned and walked back toward the landing. He’d picked the wrong direction. He crossed the landing, passed one, then two sets of double doors which were both closed. The third, ahead on his left, were flung open. He could hear strains of traditional music, and Pansy’s laughter again. Taking a deep breath and gathering his courage, he strode through the doors into the room. 

Pansy was seated in an ornate rococo-style loveseat upholstered entirely in zebra print velvet. 

_Oh, Hecate._

The loveseat on its own was enough to—actually. He considered it for a moment. 

 _It’s actually not_ bad. 

_It has a certain kitschy, faux-luxe charm…_

He shook his head. He was getting distracted by all of these absurd interior furnishings. 

“Draco!” Pansy said delightedly. “You made it. We were wondering when you would be visiting us.” 

Pansy seemed to be alright. She wasn’t bleeding from the head, she had all her limbs and her clothes and hair were neat and perfectly in place. 

_Us._

_So where is he?_

_What did he do?_

A figure rose from a matching throne-like armchair positioned next to the loveseat. It was a man, tall, with dark hair. He was dressed in traditional robes which he assumed must originate from Dalmatia. 

_So you’re Kazimir Dolohov._

The man turned around and came toward him, eyes lowered respectfully, and to his complete and utter shock, knelt on one knee before him. The man placed one arm across his chest in a gesture of respect and said, “I humbly present myself, Kazimir Dolohov, to your gracious notice. May that I am successful in the deepest wish of my heart.” Kazimir Dolohov bowed his dark head respectfully. 

He stared. 

_Deepest wish of my heart?_

Something stirred in his memory. There had been something familiar about Dolohov’s reception of him this afternoon. Seating him at his left-hand side, the four successive rounds of rakija… 

_Mira._

_She told me about this._

Mum’s Croatian girlfriend. She had told him about the customs of her homeland. One day she had explained to him how witches and wizards got married in old Dalmatia…

_This is…_

_This is a courtship ritual._

Kazimir Dolohov had begun speaking again. “I have been told that you are as beautiful as the Veela, dancing in the moonlight,” he said in a rich, warm voice. 

_Dancing in the moonlight?_

_That was only once!_

_And I blame the Firewhiskey…_

He was getting delirious. He had to be wrong. He’d made a mistake. This was all… 

“May I humbly request to look upon your face?” Kazimir Dolohov finished. 

“You may,” he said, trying to sound confident and in control and failing miserably. 

He looked down. Kazimir looked up. 

_He._

_ca._

_te._

Kazimir was wearing traditional robes. They were different from stuffy British robes; lighter, more fluid, and rather elegant. But the last time he’d seen Kazimir, he’d been wearing nothing at all. He’d seen Kazimir Dolohov before, all right. He’d seen the aquiline nose, moss-green eyes, the clean jawline, the full lips, the dark hair. Yesterday morning, trying to get into the bathroom in their house in the Old Town to relieve himself. He’d cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on Kazimir Dolohov and had a screaming argument with his father over Kazimir Dolohov’s prone body. 

He started in shock. 

Kazimir did the same. 

_Fuck._

_Fuck my life._

_That’s… that’s all._


	83. A Woman Screaming

**Harry**

_Harry, you haven’t given up, have you?_  
****

He paced the room, trying to figure out how he was going to get out.  
****

_Oh, believe me, I haven’t given up._

He was itching to get his hands on Malfoy. 

_He’s going to curse the day he was born._

_The day he first looked me over in Diagon Alley with those cold silver eyes._

_Like I was a lump of frogspawn he’d found in his porridge._

He climbed up on the bed to scrabble at the one small, high window, which was level with the street, so he could see boots and sandals walking past. It was about the size of a standard roll of parchment and covered in thick iron bars. 

_It’s times like these you need a loyal House Elf to come and Apparate you out._

_Poor Dobby._

_I miss Dobby. He was a good Elf, a good soul._

_Once people are dead, they’re safe, aren’t they?_

He heard Ginny’s voice in his head. 

_Shut up Ginny._

_You hated Dobby while he was alive._

_Then once he died—_

_Ginny get out of my head._

He forced his mind back to the task at hand. Maybe if he smashed this window he could shout at someone for help. 

_There’s a guard on the door. I’m sure they would hear in two seconds flat if I start shouting._

Even if he could, how would a random Muggle be able to help him get out of here? 

_Hang on a second…_

He turned away from the window and got down from the bed, not caring that he was standing on it in his trainers and probably scuffing the clean sheets. 

_How can I get that door open?_

He had thought of bashing it down with a chair, but he only had one good arm and he definitely wasn’t strong enough to batter down a door one-handed with a wooden chair. Not to mention, even if he was, it would make so much noise that he would be stopped before he could achieve anything. 

_Wait._

If the door was locked mechanically using a key… then if he broke the lock mechanism he would be able to get out that way. He could break off a chair leg, and use that. A couple of good whacks to the door handle should be enough. He went closer to examine the lock. He could just see the metal parts of it in the small space between the door and the jamb.

_Bollocks._

The door wasn’t locked mechanically at all. He tried the handle. It depressed as if it were open, but the door didn’t budge. 

_It’s locked with magic._

Of course it was. Of course it was… He hadn’t really paid attention to what Neville had said when he closed the door. He had just gone in meekly and laid down on the bed. 

_Harry, you haven’t given up, have you?_

He stared at the door, clenching his jaw. 

_I’m going to get through that door._

_I don’t have a wand…_

_But…_

There had to be another way. Sometimes it seemed so silly that he couldn’t just _do_ magic without a magic, because the magic was in him, surely, just waiting there until he wanted to use it? 

_But you can’t do magic without a wand…_

_It’s just not possible…_

_Except… for House Elves._

Well, he wasn’t a House Elf. Although perhaps he should think about becoming one with some kind of permanent polyjuice. That would throw Malfoy off the scent. 

_I’d like to see him maintain a crush on a House Elf._

He smirked in amusement. 

_Hang about._

_Young witches and wizards do magic without wands._

_They don’t_ mean _to, they can’t_ control _it, but…_

 _He_ had done magic without a wand… magic he couldn’t control. Dangerous, desperate, out of control magic, but he had done it. 

_What if there was a way to do that, but just… in a more controlled way?_

He pulled the wooden chair over to the door and sat down. 

_Malfoy._

_At the Hog’s Head. And after we used the Portkey._

Malfoy hadn’t had a wand on him—both of them had had their wands taken by Dumbledore’s Army. But Malfoy had done magic. 

_He made that Pensive memory-goo come out of his eyes._

_Remember that?_

That had been really strange. He’d seen Dumbledore remove strands of the memory stuff from his temple, but he’d never thought that it actually came _out of his skin_.  _That’s kind of revolting._

Although he supposed… it made sense, since touching the goo with your skin was what allowed you to experience the memories it held. 

_Anyway, Malfoy definitely did not have a wand when he did that._

And then Malfoy had made the robes fall off and reversed the lip-sealing curse when they’d taken that Portkey Shacklebolt had given him. He’d thought it was someone else casting the spell on them from a distance—

_Then I thought it was dark magic._

_Maybe it is dark magic._

_Is it dark magic to not use a wand?_

He’d made fires break out. There had been a car accident. 

_I don’t care if it is dark magic._

_I’m going to open that door._  

He sat there and stared at it. If he did this… 

_If I do this… will it make me a bad person?_

Dumbledore’s Army were the good guys, weren’t they? They were trying to arrest Death Eaters, they were working with the Ministry… 

 _This will_ help _Dumbledore’s Army._

_Maybe they’ll be annoyed with me at first, but eventually they’ll realise I was in the right._

_They_ need _Death Eaters and I’m the_ only _one who can find out where they are._

_This is for their own good._

_They should be using me. I’m their greatest asset._

_Instead they took away my wand and locked me in a room._

_That was a mistake, Ginny. A big mistake._

_And to be honest, maybe you should pay for that mistake, just a little._

He stared at the door. 

_Unlock._

_Unlock._

_Unlock._

Nothing happened. He closed his eyes and focused his entire being on the door, willing it to unlock. 

_Unlock._

_I can’t will myself to have a panic attack._

_And even if I could, I wouldn’t._

_They’re horrible._

_I wouldn’t wish one on my wors—_

_You wouldn’t wish a panic attack on Malfoy, Harry? Really, mate?_

_He’s pretty horrible. Wouldn’t that be a good way to punish him?_

_If you made him have a panic attack?_

_Is there a spell for that?_

He was getting distracted. 

_I’m here. I’m here with you. Just breathe. Count with me. One, two, three, four, five._

He could feel himself grinding his teeth. The terror of a panic attack was nothing compared to the people who had come home to find the Dark Mark floating in the sky above their home. Malfoy would have to have a thousand panic attacks before he could even start to make up for the terrible things he had done. For the damage he had inflicted. 

_So yeah. Yeah. Of course I would wish Malfoy to have a panic attack._

_If there was a spell for that and I had a wand and Malfoy was here, I would perform it on him._

_Right here, right now._

_Course I would. 1_

_And I would laugh in his face while he shook on the ground._

He closed his eyes. He _would_ laugh in Malfoy’s face and he would think about how much Malfoy deserved it. He _hated_ Malfoy, hated him to the ends of the earth. Malfoy was nothing to him, less than nothing. If he were the sun, Malfoy would be a cockroach crawling in a pile of rubbish on a no-name planet in another galaxy. That was how little Malfoy meant to him.  

_I’m here. I’m here with you. Breathe in. Count with me. One, two, three, four, five._

He clenched his good fist so hard his nails hurt the soft flesh of his palms. He hated, hated, hated Malfoy. 

Hold your breath. Now, let it out. Slowly.

Hated Malfoy’s hair, Malfoy’s smirk, Malfoy’s laugh, Malfoy’s sense of humour, Malfoy’s sarcasm, Malfoy’s eyes on him, always looking at him, always, hated Malfoy’s stupid clothes and how his body looked in them, hated Malfoy’s lips and hated himself for imagining that he had kissed them. Hated how Malfoy wore his femininity like perfume, sweet and alluring, heady and intoxicating. Hated that Malfoy tried to talk to him, hated that he’d seen Malfoy unguarded, open, defenceless, hated that Malfoy had shown it willingly.

Hated that Malfoy had seen him. 

_I’m here. I’m here with you._

_Ron didn’t tell me_

_He didn’t tell me they think it’s my fault._

_They think it’s my fault so many people died in the Battle of Hogwarts_

_They think I started the Battle of Hogwarts._

_I’ll read them._

_I’ll read them through for you._

No-one should see that. No-one should have seen him. 

_Then you know what it’s like, to give another person everything._

_To give them everything of yourself, not holding anything back._

_Because you need them to see you, see all of you, see everything._

No, he didn’t. Because he didn’t want to see everything in himself. He wanted it to go away, and if it wouldn’t go away, he wanted someone else to take it away. He’d wanted Ginny to take it away. Wanted her to take that part of himself that he didn’t want, and put herself in its place. 

_Harry Dursley._

_Why don’t you bugger off back under the stairs where you belong?_

He hadn’t been able to produce a Patronus in the field the other night, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to now. 

_It’s like that’s happening all the time._

_It’s like there’s a Dementor following me around._

And when the Dementors came near, he could hear those screams. He’d always told himself those were the screams of his mother being murdered by Voldemort. Ever since he’d first heard them. It wasn’t. But it was easier to think that than to acknowledge the truth. That it was Aunt Petunia screaming in that field next to the motorway, after she’d hidden him in that clump of shrubs. Aunt Petunia screaming as the police caught up with her and restrained her and took her away to a psychiatric ward. Aunt Petunia screaming because she was terrified that Dumbledore had come to collect him to take him away from her.

He remembered being a little boy and taunting Dudley, knowing he had the power to hurt him. 

 _She's_ my  _mother._

 _Yes, but she loves_ me _more._

He remembered Aunt Petunia facing down Dumbledore, holding onto him tightly. 

_I don’t believe what you wrote in that letter. My sister would never have left her son to me._

It had been different. Once. A long time ago, it had been different. 

_She loved me._

_Aunt Petunia loved me._

He hung his head. 

The door burst into flames. 

He was so shocked that he practically fell off the chair. He got up quickly, his heart racing. 

_See?_

_I did it._

_I did that on purpose that time._

_That was… see? I can do magic without a wand._

He had to act quickly. The room was already starting to fill with smoke. He picked up the chair with one arm and climbed back on the bed and, bracing the chair against his shoulder, aimed two of its legs at the window. The window was high and he had to jump to do it. 

_Argh!_

His first jump just jolted the chair back into his face, knocked his glasses off and clipped his ear. 

_Ouch._

He pushed the glasses to a safer place on the other side of the bed with his shoe, then jumped and aimed again. 

_Yes._

He had landed the two chair legs squarely on the glass. Spidery cracks had appeared all over it. He jumped again, and this time the glass exploded. He ducked his face to avoid the flying shards of glass, which luckily avoided his face, and then pulled himself up to the bars with his good arm. “Help!” He shouted into the street. “Help! Call the police! I’m locked in here!” The room was filling with acrid smoke. He coughed and breathed, thankfully, the fresh air coming in through the window. 

A pair of feet stopped and a pair of knees appeared next to them. It reminded him, frighteningly, of when he’d been hiding in that bush and Dumbledore had knelt down  and peered in at him. He almost expected a long beard to start coiling down onto the ground as well. But it wasn’t Dumbledore, of course. It was a woman who took one  look at him, and at the smoke which was starting to curl around him, and screamed, “Fire!” 

“I’m trapped in here,” he called. “Get help!” 

At this precise moment, he felt a great rush of air behind him, heard shouting and billowing cloud of burning smoke enveloped him. He closed his eyes, held his breath but the shock of it made him drop down on the bed and he felt someone climb onto it, shouting, “He’s here! Watch your eyes!” Before dissolving into a fit of coughing and choking. There was even more smoke and he coughed, choking, his lungs burning. “It’s out, the door’s out,” Someone shouted, before coughing. Then a blast of fresh air and he could breathe again. 

He opened his eyes. Seamus was on the floor next to the bed, seemingly hacking up a lung. Alicia was standing by the smoking, charred remains of the door, water still dripping from her wand, coughing for England. And behind them, standing in the door frame, holding up his wand and sending a continuous stream of cold, fresh air into the room, was Neville. 

“We didn’t see anything,” Seamus choked. “Until the smoke started coming out.” 

The door had been burning for a good few minutes before they had come in. He could only assume that the flame had taken that much time to work through onto the other side, where it would have been visible from the kitchen.

“Is Harry alright?” 

“I think he’s unconscious. He breathed a lot of smoke.” 

He shut his eyes immediately and didn’t move a muscle. 

But Neville wasn’t listening to them. He was standing still, listening to a sound that was building in the near distance. 

_Wheee—oohhhhhh_

_Wheeee—ooooohhhh_

He heard footsteps walking past the bed, then felt it dip significantly as someone climbed on. 

_Neville._

It had to be Neville. 

The weight disappeared. Neville must have lifted himself up by the bars in order to look out the window.

_Neville is on the bed._

_That means the door frame isn’t blocked any longer._

“Er, hello,” Neville said. “We’re fine. It was just an accident.” 

_He’s talking to the Muggles in the street._

_There must be some looking in._

_That woman maybe._

_Someone called the fire brigade._

Seamus and Alicia were both still coughing. He steeled himself. 

_Now._

Without another moment’s hesitation, he launched himself off the bed like a Bludger breaking its bonds and blasting away into the sky. He landed lightly on the floor and withintwo bounds was past Alicia, out of the door and launching himself across the kitchen toward the stairs which led up to the landing. 

He heard Alicia’s scream of shock and Seamus shouting, “Feck! The bugger’s away—he’s away, Nev!” 

He wrenched the door to the staircase open, only to be confronted with an almighty shriek from Luna who stood on the other side. As quick as lightning, he snatched Luna’s wand like the Snitch, dodged around her and sprinted up the stairs. She was on his heels within seconds as she realised what was going on. He pointed the wand back over his shoulder and shouted, “ _Tantallegra_!” He didn’t even glance back over his shoulder as he burst back out the door at the top of the stairs. 

It was empty. 

“He’s broken out!” The shout came from above. It was Neville’s voice—he must have sent a Patronus up there. 

No. 

It wasn’t.

Members of Dumbledore’s Army were streaming out of the room upstairs where he’d spoken to Ginny this morning. 

_Wheee—oooohhh_

_Wheee—oooohhhh_

The sirens were piercingly loud. He ran with all the speed he could muster behind the arch of the spiral staircase and crawled underneath it, into the smallest corner of it, all the way back against the wall, in shadow. It was like being back in his cupboard.

_There are too many._

He could see the flashing red lights of the fire engines reflected against the small corner of marble floor still visible from where he crouched. 

_They’ll find me in a second._

If only he had his cloak, he could hide here until they dispersed and they would never find him. Or if he could make himself invisible, like that time when Uncle Vernon hadn’t been able to see him in the hallway, listening to him and Auntie fighting. All he could hear was sirens, right outside the door of the house, as loud as anything. He performed _Muffliato_ on himself as he started to cough, and cough, and cough. His lungs were burning. He could barely get his breath and he was starting to get dizzy. He hacked and gasped

_I can’t get my breath._

He was going to die here, under the stairs, hiding from the people who were supposed to be his friends, trying to get revenge on an evil, not beautiful at all, horrible, not hot in any way Death Eater called Draco Malfoy.

_Breathe in. Count with me. One, two, three, four, five._

Finally he breathed a proper breath, wheezing, but deep enough that he didn’t feel as if he was going to suffocate any moment.

Hold your breath. Now, let it out. Slowly.

He crouched, doubled over, listening. The sirens were still going, so that he couldn’t hear anything else that was going on. It was maddening. 

_That noise is going to drive me bonkers._

Then Ron appeared at the curve of the spiral staircase. 

“Ron!” He shouted, but couldn’t hear himself. His throat hurt. 

Ron gestured him forward frantically. 

He scrambled across the marble and emerged from underneath the stairs. Ron pointed to the front door and they broke into a run at the same time. Ron pointed his wand at the door, said something and it opened when he turned the handle. With Ron at his side, he slipped out into the street, feeling a cool breeze rise against his sweaty neck as he did so. 

_Freedom._

The city had never looked so good as it did now, at this moment. The pale stones were glowing pink in the light of a setting sun and lights were beginning to shine out from the windows of the houses which rose around him. 

_Beautiful._

Ron was closing the door, muttering a spell as he did so. Ron turned to him and said something, but he still couldn’t hear a thing. Because the sirens were still going coming from an enormous fire engine which was sitting, hulking and incongruous in the ancient city, not far away, its lights flashing. Muggles, random passersby and tourists, were gawking and a number of firefighters were wandering around, pointing here and there and looking confused. 

Ron pointed up the street, and nodded at him. He nodded back. 

They ran. 

Like the wind, like broomsticks chasing Snitches and Quaffles and Bludgers, like dragons chasing stolen eggs, up the wide street which led to the fountain, past the fountain and up a series of ramps and across the bridge where Ginny had duelled the Death Eater, out of the Old Town, until they were in the Muggle city surrounding it, and he was bent over with his hands on his knees, coughing. 

_Fuck._

_That hurts._

“Merlin’s massive bollocks, Harry,” Ron wiped sweat from his eyes. “What did I tell you about fire? I was on my way back to you to open the door. I was going to create a diversion with some dungbombs…” 

He gasped. “I suppose I created my own diversion.” 

“Merlin alive, Harry,” Ron said. “You did that, mate. You did that, too.” 

“Right,” he said. “I need to send an owl.” 


	84. Traditional Courtship

**Draco**

Kazimir Dolohov rose, slowly, a crimson flush creeping across his face. How he was keeping his composure he had no idea. He was practically on the ground with suppressed laughter. He bowed, and gestured at the seating area behind them. “Would you do me the honour of joining us?”   
****

_Oh, this is too good._

_He’s still keeping it up?_

He bowed his head. “You have my thanks.” He went and sat down next to Pansy, who looked like she trying to keep her excitement but it was threatening to overflow into squealing and clutching his arm. 

Kazimir seated himself again in the armchair, still blushing deeply. 

_I can’t believe it._

_Father goes out to a random bar and ends up taking Dolohov’s son home._

_If it was any other situation, this would be too funny to be true._

In any other situation, the moment when the two came face to face again would become the stuff of family legend. If it had been some uni student Mum pulled who was then for some reason was introduced to him as a prospective bride, he would be telling this story for years to come. 

But this wasn’t funny. 

Dolohov murdered Sir. Then Father slept with his son? That’s just a horrible twist of fate. Father was going to feel even worse about what he’d done. He knew Father felt bad, because Father usually told him _everything_ … but he hadn’t said a word about his night with this young man. 

_And now Dolohov is trying to set me up with his son?_

_Where did he get this idea?_

_Did he run this past Father?_

_Why would he do it against Father’s wishes?_

It would be highly unusual, offensive in fact, of Dolohov to permit his son to begin courtship if he hadn’t discussed it with the parents of the intended. 

_What is going on?_

Kazimir Dolohov was still red from his hairline to his collar, but he seemed to be pressing on valiantly. “Would you care for a glass of wine?” 

He eyed Kazimir Dolohov with distaste. Tall, athletic, handsome, distinguished and polite. 

_I don’t like him._

He looked at the wine. He wanted to say no, he really did, but quite frankly…he needed a drink to cope with all of this chaos. 

_You shouldn’t._

_You should keep your wits about you._

“Thank you,” he said coldly, and accepted a glass. 

“This is from my father’s vineyards,” Kazimir Dolohov said. “On the beautiful island of Hvar.” 

“Indeed,” he replied without emotion, and sipped the wine. It _was_ delicious, if he was honest. 

“Kazimir went to Durmstrang,” Pansy piped up, smiling brightly at him. “He left—three years ago, did you say, Kazimir?” 

He nodded. “Now I work with my father,” he said. “Helping him in his business affairs.” 

_Of course you do._

He didn’t say anything. He would just let them carry the conversation. He wasn’t about to make chitchat. 

“A-and yourself?” Kazimir asked, a touch of nervousness in his voice. 

He looked him in the eye. “I like going out,” he said. 

“Going out?” Kazimir pulled ever so slightly at the collar of his robes. 

“You know,” he leaned forward a little and allowed a smile to curl on his top lip. “I like going to bars. Clubbing.” 

“Ah, clubbing,” Kazimir rubbed the back of his neck. There was a sheen on the golden tan skin of his forehead. “We have fantastic nightlife in Dubrovnik.” 

“Do you,” he said, rubbing his finger around the rim of his wine glass slowly. It was cold and condensation was running down the sides. 

Kazimir looked around the room as if trying to find somewhere else to look. 

“Can you… recommend anywhere?” He asked, his voice liquid. 

“Ah…” Kazimir ran a hand through his hair. 

“Do you know any good places,” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. “For meeting men?” 

Kazimir jerked back in his seat and nearly spilled cold Hvar wine over his fine robes. 

He glanced at Pansy in sheer victory and saw the stunned look on her face. He flashed her an evil grin. She broke into high-pitched laughter. “Kazimir, you must understand Draco has the _strangest_ sense of humour, don’t you, Draco?” 

“Not especially,” he deadpanned. 

“Excuse me,” Kazimir muttered, rising from his seat. “I will return shortly.” He practically ran out of the room. 

“Draco, what in Circe’s _sweet_ name was that about?” She hissed at him, looking absolutely outraged. “What did you say all of that for?” 

He sat back on the loveseat and drank his wine. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I thought it would be amusing.” 

“Draco, this is a great match. You’re really lucky. His father is Dolohov and did you _see_ him? He’s an Adonis.” 

He let the wine roll around his mouth. “Not my type.” 

“Not your _type_? He’s everybody’s type! Don’t tell me you would say no if you found him in your bed when you pull the sheets back at night.” 

He glanced at her. “I’d consider…” 

She sat back in satisfaction. 

“Letting him do the laundry,” he finished with a smirk. 

She rolled her eyes and gripped his arm. “I’ve never seen a traditional courtship done so… elegantly, I thought I was going to swoon,” she sighed. “And he was so amazed when he saw you, I thought he was going to fall over! I mean, really, you are _stunning_ now…” 

“Pansy,” he said. “I’m not interested.” 

She stared at him. “You’re joking.” 

He frowned. “I need to speak to my father,” he muttered. 

“You want to go on pining after Harry Potter when you could have _that_?” She spat. “You are insane! Potter treats you like shit, Draco, he always has—”

He crossed his arms. “I treated him like shit back,” he muttered. 

“I _know_ ,” she said. “I’ve watched seven years of this and I’m telling you Draco, get over him. He’s a straight boy, for Circe’s sake. It’s so unhealthy.” 

He turned to her. “If I wanted your opinion, I would ask for it.” 

She pursed her lips. “Why didn’t you let me set you you up with—”

“I wasn’t _interested_ , Pans,” he said in a bored tone. “Besides, that all stopped in sixth year anyway, didn’t it?” 

“Well it wasn’t so easy to find dating opportunities for you when you once we all thought we might be expelled because of you!” She snapped. 

“I beg your pardon,” Kazimir had returned. 

Pansy fell silent immediately. 

Kazimir sat down and looked at him. “How may I address you?” 

_Er…_

He tried not to huff. “Draco,” he said, and tried not to add a sarcastic, “ _I suppose_ ,” at the end. 

“I have had many lovers,” Kazimir began earnestly. 

He almost spat Dolohov’s finest vintage all over the carpet. Beside him, he saw Pansy go rigid as if she was trying to contain a spasm of laughter. 

Kazimir leaned toward him. “I have had many lovers,” he repeated. “But I have never known the bond of love. Now, I seek the steady and enduring partnership of marriage.” 

_Oh, Hecate._

_He’s serious about this._

It was almost sweet. Was Kazimir Dolohov trying to please his father? Or seeking the boost in society that would come with marriage to the scion of the last noble house in Britain?

He wasn’t about to  give up his fun to find out. “So…” he said, quirking one eyebrow. 

But then he had a thought. If Kazimir Dolohov _was_ serious, he didn’t want to push him too far. He might end up breaking down and apologising for sleeping with Father, and Pansy was sitting right next to him. 

_Father really didn’t think this through._

_What if this chap goes and starts telling everyone?_

He’d been worried that Father would be reckless, but he’d never thought Father would play fast and loose with everything that they had been working toward for so many years.

_If doubt is cast on Father and Mum’s marriage…_

_that could cast doubt on a lot of other things, too._

He knew that Father _wanted_ to marry Sir and live this perfect life he had envisioned, but surely Father knew that was never going to happen? The House of Black was barely standing and the House of Malfoy rested on his unwilling shoulders. It wouldn’t take much for an adversary to seal the final downfall of both. 

He heard his own words echoing in his mind. 

_When did I start sounding so much like Mum?_

No. No, he sounded like Sir. 

_He knew that Father wanted to marry Sir and live this perfect he had envisioned, but surely Father knew that was never going to happen?_

The echo continued. He realised with a shock that the sentence he had just uttered in his mind could be changed very easily… 

_I know that Draco wants to marry Potter and live this perfect he has envisioned, but surely he knows that’s never going to happen?_

For some reason he imagined Sir saying it. 

_No… no._

_He would_ never _approve a match with the son of Dolohov._

But Father… 

_No, no, no._

He couldn’t believe it. Father was traditional, yes. Father wanted him to be the one to restore the House of Malfoy to its former glory. But Father would _never_ endorse an alliance with a foreign house.

_Would he?_

If his mother were here, she would be absolutely outraged. She would be shocked, then outraged, and then offended, in that order. She and Sir had dedicated their lives. If the noble houses of wizarding England were ever to rise again, they must band together, gather their strength, and wait for their opportunity. Outside marriages were absolutely out of the question. 

_I don’t know what’s going on here._

_But I don’t like it._

_I need to speak to Father._

Now he was the one who was going to excuse himself. He stood up. 

Kazimir seemed to read his mind. “At the end of the corridor,” he said, still as respectful as ever. 

He hurried out of the room, following Kazimir’s directions down the animal print expressway. The first door at the end of the corridor was locked. The second turned out to be a linen cupboard. Finally he found the toilet and quickly locked himself inside. It had a bathtub in the shape of an enormous scallop shell, made of gleaming white porcelain with gilded edges. 

He sat down on the white lip which ran around the edge of it. 

_There’s nothing for it._

_I must speak to Father._

_He’s just going to have to come up with an explanation._

He took out his wand and closed his eyes. He could feel Potter’s arms around him, Potter’s lips moving against his as he murmured, _You drive me mad, you know that?  I love you._ “ _Expecto patronum_ ,” he whispered. And then, still whispering, “Dad, I’m in the toilet upstairs. I need to speak to you now.” His Patronus scampered away and he sat there, arms crossed, waiting. 

_Tap._

_Tap tap._

He nearly jumped out of his skin. 

_Did something happen down there?_

_Have we been attacked?_

_Are they duelling?_

But it was only an owl, tapping against the glass, flapping wildly. 

_An owl?_

_Father doesn’t have an owl on him._

_Seems strange to send an owl… and that was strangely quick, as well…_

He had to climb into the scallop shell tub to get to the window. He opened it and the owl perched on the ledge. 

_What if it’s from Mum?_

_What if something’s happened?_

He untied the parchment from its leg and unrolled it with trembling fingers. It was written in an untidy, slightly childish scrawl. _Malfoy. I’m in great danger. Come as soon as you can. HP_

His eyes almost fell out of their sockets. “Potter?!” He gasped. “What happened?” 

There was a rapping on the door and he practically fell over himself trying to get out of the tub to answer it. He opened it and let Father in. Father locked the door again. 

He didn’t look happy. “What are you playing at?” He snapped. “I had to pretend it was from Narcissa!” 

He had the letter clutched against his chest. “Father, Potter sent this—look—”

Father read the letter. “He still calls you ‘Malfoy’?” 

“That’s all you have to say?” He wailed. “I need to go—right away—”

“Wait,” Father said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “If he had time to send an owl, he has time to give you more information before you go gallivanting off. Write a reply.” 

He put the parchment face-down on the vanity and realised he didn’t have a quill on him. “Do you have a quill?” 

Father shook his head placidly. 

“What am I going to do?” He said in anguish. 

“Just send it back,” Father said calmly. “Fold the top left corner over. Like that. Exactly.” 

He tied the parchment back onto the owl with trembling fingers and shooed it out the window, then sank into the empty bath. 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Father said. “He’s probably feeling neglected.” 

He shot a look of anger at Father. “How can you make jokes at a time like this? Anything could have happened to him.” 

“As soon as you hear back,” Father said, “you’ll know where to find him. And then you can leave.” 

_Father’s happy about this._

It dawned on him. Father wanted him to leave. Father didn’t want him here—he’d made that very clear when he arrived. 

“Father,” he said. “Did you know that you slept with Dolohov’s son the other night?” 

Father tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and didn’t meet his eyes. 

“You _knew_ ,” he said. 

Father shrugged and tried to smirk. “I couldn’t help myself. Have you seen him?” 

“He practically proposed _marriage_ ,” he hissed. “He’s been courting me ever since I got up here!” 

Father stared back at him, then re-tucked the strand of hair. 

He stood up and got out of the bath. “This is your doing?” He couldn’t believe it. He just couldn’t believe it. 

Father raised his hands defensively. “Draco, you aren’t _supposed_ to be here. I changed my mind about the whole thing already. Why do you _think_ I was so annoyed to see you here?” 

“I don’t know,” he said coldly. “Could it be because the Daily Prophet published that I’m an informer and that’s why Dolohov is planning to garrott, eviscerate, exsanguinate or otherwise murder me in cold blood tonight?” 

Father frowned. “Oh, no, Draco. Antonin Dolohov isn’t interested in doing that.” 

“How do you know?” He hissed. “As soon as he finds out about you and his son, he’ll probably kill you as well.” 

Father smirked. “That boy is never going to breathe a _word_ of what happened to anyone, let me assure you.” 

He scowled. “Why are you being all tricky? Father, this isn’t like you.” Father wasn’t the one who came up with schemes. Father was the one who did what he was told, then spent the rest of the time on the estate, trying to forget about it all. 

Father stared at him. “Not like me? Well, of late I haven’t been feeling myself, it’s true… it might have something to do with the death of my husband. I’ll leave you now, Draco. Leave as soon as you hear back from Harry.” 

“Why?” He narrowed his eyes. “What are you planning to do?” 

Father took the small black potion bottle out of his robes and handed it back to him. “Thank you, darling,” he said. “But I won’t be needing wolfsbane.” 

“Are you sure?” He said quietly. 

Father nodded. 

He felt terrified for him suddenly. “Father,” he said, and hugged him tightly. 

Father embraced him back tightly. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said. “My son.” 

“I miss Sir,” he whispered. 

_I don’t want you to die as well._

Father stroked his hair. “I have no regrets, Draco. I got you, and that was worth it.” Father kissed his forehead and smoothed his robes. “You take your strength from weakness. That’s not easy for a man. It’s not easy to admire in a man. I admire it in you, Draco.” 

He didn’t know what to say. “You’re going to make me cry,” he said. 

“See?” Father smiled. “I wish I had made an asset of it as you do.” 

He felt embarrassed. He didn’t think that was true at all. “Why did you tell Dolohov…” he asked, to change the subject. 

Father shrugged. “Another option. In case… just in case. Silly of me. Not important now. Go and save your young man, then.” 

“See you later, Dad,” he said. 

Father let himself out and he sat there, waiting for the owl to return. He took the wolfsbane potion out of his pocket. 

_I thought maybe Father could use it to help him kill Greyback._

He pulled up his robes. He was wearing his favourite outfit underneath and had stuffed the pockets of his shorts full of potions. He took them out and lined them up on the edge of the sink. _Wolfsbane. Skele-Gro. Sedative Soother. Polyjuice. Veritaserum. Amortentia._

_Just the essentials._

Or at least, they were the most potentially useful potions for espionage and subterfuge. There had been a few other useful ones, but they had reached their expiration date already. These were all long-life potions and still within date. 

_Where is that owl?_

“Draco?” There was a tapping at the door. 

_Pansy._

“What’s taking so long?” She said. “Are you avoiding us?” 

He considered climbing out the window and quickly stuck his head out, but there were no ledges or drainpipes or anything useful to cling on to. 

“Draco,” she knocked on the door again. Then there were a series of sounds all in quick succession: an explosion, shouting, a crash of something very heavy, and the unmistakeable sound of spellfire. Pansy shrieked in terror. “Draco, what’s happening?” 

_Fuck._

_Dolohov._

_Father._

He started stuffing the potions bottles back into his pockets—

_What am I doing?_

_This isn’t important—_

He pulled his robes back down, unlocked the door and joined Pansy on the other side, wand at the ready. Kazimir Dolohov had emerged into the hallway and gestured to both of them to join him. He had his wand drawn. He noticed that Pansy had her wand drawn as well, and he thought he saw something steely in her gaze which he didn’t recognise. 

“I’ll stay up here,” she said. “And let you know if anyone comes up.” 

“Good idea,” he said, relieved. Pansy had zero training or experience in duelling. 

Kazimir nodded at him, and side by side they walked together down the tunnel of leopard print toward the obvious sounds of fighting which were rising up the staircase. 


	85. Not The Kind Of Wizard

**Harry**

_There he is._

His heart started beating faster and his stomach twisted. 

_Of course it’s beating faster. I’m nervous._

_Of course I’m nervous._

_I just attacked a house full of Death Eaters._

He was standing behind a Chinese-style porcelain vase so tall it had to be double his height. He was watching Malfoy come down the stairs, looking every inch the Death Eater in long black robes, his white blond hair slicked back, wand drawn. 

_Who’s that?_

A strikingly good-looking wizard, tall with dark hair, was walking next to Malfoy, also with his wand drawn. 

_Is that Malfoy’s…_

_Does Malfoy have a boyfriend?_

He stood there, struck dumb, staring at Malfoy and the good-looking wizard walking together down the stairs. He couldn’t even pay attention to anything that was going on around him. He couldn’t take his eyes off Malfoy. 

_I’m so stupid._

_I am just… so stupid._

He never considered Malfoy’s relationship status—apart from about five seconds at the Yule Ball, maybe—until Malfoy started telling him he fancied him, and then he had assumed Malfoy was single. 

_Of course I assumed that._

_No, Harry._

_Not ‘of course’._

He was so naive. Just because someone kissed you that didn’t make you their boyfriend, and just because someone was married didn’t mean they weren’t having secret gay affairs, and just because someone said they liked you didn’t mean they were available and waiting for you to like them back. 

_Why did I think he was?_

_Of course he’s not single._

_Why would he be?_

Of course Malfoy was with someone. He was good-looking, he was rich, and he was from a powerful family. He was a catch for any dark witch or wizard. 

_No-one my age is single, or a virgin._

_Oh, except for me._

He watched Malfoy and his boyfriend. They were clearly taking a defensive attitude, hanging back to get a sense of the fight and to see what tactic would gain them the most advantage. The boyfriend glanced at Malfoy, then down at the lobby below.

He stood there behind the vase, feeling like a complete muppet. He was so stupid, he started to feel sick in the pit of his stomach. They had done a disillusionment charm on him and he had no idea if it had really worked or if he was just incredibly lucky to not have been spotted yet. 

He could feel himself sweating and he suddenly became aware of how dirty and dishevelled he was. His hair was standing up in stiff peaks due to grease. He had been wearing these clothes for days on end. Malfoy looked flawless, neat, pristine and beautiful. 

_I don’t spend all day primping and tarting myself up._

_I’m not a_ girl. 

Well, Malfoy could have the last laugh on that one. Right now he wished he had done at least a little primping. He wasn’t fit to be seen. He had a strong urge to turn and run straight out the door. 

_What am I talking about?_

He was supposed to be watching Ron’s back, taking out any Death Eaters who came within range. Not pondering Malfoy’s personal life. 

_All of this is irrelevant._

All of this relationship stuff. It was totally… completely… 

_Stupid_

Look at Dumbledore. He hadn’t bothered with it. Dumbledore hadn’t been married and he was one hundred percent certain that he would have found Dumbledore in the middle of a gay bar—

_What are you saying?_

_What are you_ thinking _?_

Why was he thinking about Dumbledore being in a gay bar? He really was going bonkers. He’d spent far too much time around Malfoy. 

 _I was just trying to say that even if Dumbledore wasn’t_ married, 

 _he also didn’t go off and have secret_ affairs. 

_He didn’t go out on the pull._

That was all he had meant. Dumbledore had concerned himself with bigger things, greater things, like the safety of the wizarding world. The future of its children. He didn’t distract himself with petty things like _relationships._ Dumbledore had risen above all of that. 

_Think about it._

_He wasn’t married._

_He had no children._

_No family._

_Just one brother who he didn’t even get on with and never saw._

Dumbledore proved that you didn’t _need_ other people. You could be just fine on your own, without anybody else—and without their expectations, their complaints, and their demands. 

_I’ve got to be more like Dumbledore._

_That’s who I need to imitate._

_Not Malfoy._

_Least of all Malfoy._

He had only done that in order to try to get Malfoy to do what he wanted him to, but it had backfired. The moment he started thinking like Malfoy, he’d started—

_Don’t._

_Just forget about it._

He was forgetting about it. It was nothing, just a random series of meaningless thoughts he’d had on one or two occasions during a time when, as the Muggle doctor at the hospital had said, he was under a lot of stress. 

_Dumbledore was friends with that Grindelwald._

_Dumbledore and Grindelwald were totally gay together._

He gasped. He had no idea why that thought had just popped into his head. 

_Why did you just think that?_

_This is because of Malfoy again…_

But no. No, there was something… about the story which made him think that it might be true. 

_Why, because Grindelwald was fit?_

Grindelwald _was_ fit. The young version, not the wrinkly old man he’d seen Voldemort kill in the tower. The one with the long blond hair and pretty, laughing face. The whole story about how they had become close very quickly and would send each other owls late into the night… 

_But that was only one summer._

Wasn’t it? That was what Rita Skeeter’s book had said. After Arianna’s death, they had become mortal enemies and hadn’t seen each other again until Dumbledore… 

_Until Dumbledore duelled Grindelwald and defeated him._

He looked at Malfoy. He was crouching behind the bannister and taking aim at a particular point in the fight below. He was concentrating, staring intensely down at the fray. 

_And then they just became two lonely old men._

_Each in their own castle, waiting to die on a tower._

That was stupid. Dumbledore wasn’t lonely. Everyone loved Dumbledore. He needed to stop thinking about Malfoy, just like Dumbledore had stopped his brief friendship with Grindelwald. 

_But Malfoy and I aren’t friends._

_So if I never see him again, that won’t be a noteworthy event._

_That will just be the normal course of things._

_Malfoy and I didn’t become friends, send each other owls and start plotting pureblood supremacy together._

There were no similarities between the two situations. Whatsoever. Malfoy had promised to take him to the Death Eaters, which he had totally failed to do. He looked up at Malfoy again, and Malfoy saw him. Their eyes met. 

_Shit._

His stomach erupted in butterflies. Malfoy held his gaze. His heart was starting to pound.

_Oh shit._

Malfoy broke the eye contact and he looked away, his cheeks burning. He forced himself to stare at the white porcelain of the vase. It had tiny cracks running through it. 

_What was that?_

It was nothing. Nothing at all. He was just nervous, that was all. 

_I want him to tell me to fuck him._

It flashed through his mind. Malfoy, lying heavily on top of him, holding his arms above his head. The other night he had tackled Malfoy to get the Daily Prophets. He thought he would have the upper hand, but Malfoy had gotten the better of him. Malfoy had pinned him to the ground and for just a second or two, Malfoy had been lying on top of him. His full weight resting on him, Malfoy had looked into his eyes for just a moment. A breath or two. 

He glanced up at the spot where Malfoy was on the stairs, but he was gone. 

_Where did he go?_

The boyfriend was still there, still watching and waiting. 

_Get a grip on yourself._

He didn’t know what had come over him. 

They had been _fighting_ , trying to get those newspapers. It wasn’t… it hadn’t been… And Malfoy had rolled off him immediately. 

_But what if he hadn’t?_

_What if he hadn’t rolled off._

_What if he had…_

His wrists had been pinned by Malfoy’s hands, he’d almost been close enough to feel Malfoy’s breath on his face—

He nearly leapt out of his skin when a dark shape loomed into the left hand field of his vision. 

_What the—_

Someone had stepped in front of the vase he was standing behind, stepped in front of the gap facing the vestibule so he could no longer see what was going on. 

_Shit._

_I’m done for._

_They’ve found me._

He almost didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see the face of his captor. Remaining very still, he turned his head. 

_Oh… my god._

It was Malfoy. Malfoy was standing there with his back to him, tall and straight-backed, hair falling over the stiff collar of his black robes, standing perfectly still, less than two feet away. 

_What is he doing?_

His first instinct was to hit Malfoy with a jinx of some kind, to incapacitate him. But he hesitated. 

“Lower your wands,” a magically amplified voice resonated through the room. “Gentlemen. Yes, we do not want this.” 

He wanted to tell Malfoy to move, but then he realised. 

_He’s making sure I can’t go out and fight._

He couldn’t think of any other reason why Malfoy would be standing right there, blocking him. 

“What is your name?” It as a man speaking in slightly accented English. 

_It has to be one of the Death Eaters._

The man’s magically amplified voice chuckled. “No, no spitting at me. Here, Yaxley, seal his mouth.”

He heard a muffled sound of protest, as if Ron was trying to shout but couldn’t. 

_I remember that jinx. The one that seals your mouth shut._

“Yaxley, take the boy upstairs,” the Death Eater said. “Yes, Kazimir, you see how bold they are. These British wizards.” 

_Kazimir?_

_Who is that?_

He went through the first names of the Death Eater he knew. There weren’t many. A lot of them, like Avery, Rookwood and Yaxley, he only had surnames for. 

It seemed to him that the sound of Ron’s protest were moving upward, as if he was being led upstairs against his will. 

Malfoy was so close. It would only take one movement to reach out and pull Malfoy backward, turn him around and—

_Stop_

_He’s right there._

_He’s literally right next to you._

_Oh, and Ron just got captured by Death Eaters._

_Oh, that’s not anything to worry about, is it?_

He realised what he was doing. He was letting Malfoy invade his head when his best friend was in danger. If Malfoy’s goal had been to compromise him at a crucial moment, he had succeeded. 

_If Dumbledore could see me now, he would be furious with me._

Dumbledore expected him to be the hero. Dumbledore had counted on it. Dumbledore had bet the future of the wizarding world on it. Because Dumbledore believed in him. 

_He would be disappointed in me._

He needed to get his head on straight again. He couldn’t hear Ron any more. He would have to do the rest of this on his own. 

“Gentlemen, come, let us return,” the voice was saying again. “Kazimir, Draco, you don’t let this boy ruin your evening.” 

_I knew it._

He could hear the sound of footsteps across the marble. The Death Eaters were leaving. The room fell silent. 

“I shall join you forthwith,” Malfoy said, not moving from his spot. 

He waited. And waited. 

_Now. Everyone else is gone._

_Curse Malfoy._

_Take his robes._

_There’s probably a cloak room full of those masks around here somewhere._

With a disguise he would be able to infiltrate the Death Eaters’ meeting.

_It’s perfect._

_Come on._

He glanced at Malfoy’s straight back, standing motionless beside him. 

_If you take his robes._

_No._

_Stop it._

If he took off Malfoy’s robes, he would see what Malfoy had on underneath them. Or what he didn’t have on. He would see Malfoy’s pale, lean limbs, he would see the scar on his chest—

Without warning, Malfoy turned around. “Give me your good arm,” he whispered. 

He scowled, trying to ignore the fluttering of his stomach and the way his face was going hot looking into Malfoy’s face, not two feet away, looking into Malfoy’s eyes. 

“Potter, do it,” Malfoy hissed, and grabbed for his good arm. He was pressed up against the wall, and his left arm was toward the room, so Malfoy had to practically reach his arm all the way around him, as if he was going to wrap his arms around him. 

_Fuck._

He gave in. He didn’t struggle. He let Malfoy take hold of his right upper arm and pull him out of the corner behind the vase. As soon as he had more space, Malfoy twisted his right arm behind his back—not roughly, and it didn’t even hurt, just firmly—and pulled him flush against him, and with his wand in his left hand pressed it into his jaw. 

“If anyone comes,” Malfoy breathed into his ear, “struggle.” 

Malfoy’s chest was against his back and the warmth of Malfoy’s body was starting to seep through his clothes. Malfoy’s hand was clasped on his forearm firmly between their bodies. Malfoy’s breath was tickling his ear.  

_Oh fuck._

He closed his eyes. If he leaned his head back, it would be resting on Malfoy’s shoulder. Then all Malfoy would have to do was to turn his head, angle his face down—

_Focus._

_You need to focus._

Malfoy turned around. He followed the movement. His feet almost got entangled with Malfoy’s. He could feel Malfoy behind him. Feel his body. Feel his legs behind his legs. He could feel Malfoy’s body against his lower back. He could feel Malfoy’s body against his bum. 

Malfoy started moving sideways in a kind of crab walk. He tried to coordinate his movements but he kept stepping on Malfoy’s feet. Malfoy moved faster, pulling him along. Malfoy was breathing right into his ear. He could tell Malfoy was keeping an eye on the opposite side of the entrance area. He was sure that was where the Death Eaters had gone. There was no-one there. 

There was a hallway leading off the vestibule at right angles to the staircase. He had seen it from the other side of the vase. Malfoy dragged him into it, released him, and then ran swiftly along it. He followed. It seemed to be empty and he assumed Malfoy was trying to get as far away from the area where he knew everyone else was gathered. 

Malfoy started trying doors along the hallway. The layout seemed familiar somehow. He realised that it reminded him of Malfoy Manor, but it didn’t look old. Well, it was clearly _intended_ to look old—but it was obviously a new building. Malfoy found one that was open. Holding held out his arm as if to keep him back, Malfoy peered inside. “ _Lumos_ ,” he whispered, poking his wand into the room, then slipping inside. He followed, and closed the door behind him. 

“ _Muffliato_ ,” Malfoy snapped. Then Malfoy rounded on him. “What in Hecate’s name is going on, Potter?” 

There was only the light from Malfoy’s _Lumos_ , and it made Malfoy look ghostly and angry. 

He stuck out his chin. “None of _your_ business.” 

“Yes it is,” Malfoy shouted. “It _is_ my business. Whatever hairbrained scheme you and Weasley have cooked up, you’d better tell me about it _now_ because apparently it’s going to be me who keeps you from getting yourself killed on this fucking wild **goose** chase.” Malfoy’s chest was heaving. He looked absolutely livid. 

He smirked. “It’s not going to work like that.” 

Malfoy raised his hands as if he wanted to grab hold of him and shake him. “Potter, listen to me, I used to think the Servants were a joke as well. But they’re not. They’re serious, Potter, and if they find you, they are going to kill you.” 

_You want to tell me about Death Eaters, Malfoy?_

_About what it’s like to face them, all alone, with no-one to back you up?_

_What’s it’s like to stand in front of Riddle knowing that he is doing everything in his power to kill you?_

_You want to tell me how the Death Eaters are not a joke?_

He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you care?” 

Malfoy stared at him, his eyes wide. “I—” he stuttered. 

_Isn’t that your Death Eater boyfriend back there?_

_Aren’t you going to go and not let me_ ruin your evening _, as that Death Eater said?_

He realised something. He knew the boyfriend. Kazimir. He had seen him before. He recognised his profile. He had seen that profile against Lucius Malfoy’s pale face in the gay bar. This _Kazimir_ was the dark-haired man he’d seen kissing Lucius Malfoy. 

_Oh, god._

He felt his face contort in disgust. 

_They… they share?_

_Father and son… sharing the same…?_

Now he knew he was going to be sick. He put his hand over his mouth. 

“Does anything I say get past your thick skull?” Malfoy’s voice rose to a shout. “What do I have to do?” Malfoy advanced on him. “Or do I need to die for you, to prove it? Is that what you want? Will you believe me then? Once I’m dead?” 

He set his jaw. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Malfoy stared at him. 

“You told me you would lead me to Death Eaters,” he said. “You _didn’t_. You didn’t keep your word.” He folded his arms. “You _are_ the most dishonourable person I’ve ever met.” He looked Malfoy over, his robes, his slicked back hair, which didn’t suit him at all, the Dark Mark that was surely burning on his wrist under his clothes. “Now you’ve gone _back_ to them and I have no idea what you’ve been trying to achieve over the last few days. You must be as incompetent a Death Eater as I thought you were. What, were you supposed to kill me? Get secrets out of me? Clearly you failed on all counts.” 

_Except he hadn’t._

Malfoy hadn’t failed. 

_Malfoy’s been trying to get me to the Death Eaters._

_Malfoy had been trying to get him away from his allies, out of England, and into the claws of the Death Eaters._

And fate had delivered Malfoy a coup de grace. When he’d fallen out with his friends, Malfoy must have jumped for joy. 

And then… 

_And then all of my allies turned on me._

_Leaving me completely alone._

_Completely helpless._

_Malfoy must have cried for joy._

“You had me alone in that hotel room,” he said, and as the words left his mouth he realised there was a second possible meaning to what he had just said. Ignoring this, he pushed on. “Why didn’t you just do it then?” Even as he spoke the words, which sounded harsh and accusatory on his lips, his mind was taking the secondary meaning of everything he had just said and running with it. Running far, far away. Very, very fast. 

_You had me alone in that hotel room._

Malfoy’s weight dipping the bed. Malfoy laying down behind him, one arm over his chest, pulling him close. One leg pushing between his. 

_Why didn’t you…_

He met Malfoy’s eyes. His heart was racing. Malfoy seemed to have him pinned to the wall. 

_I want to …_

_God, I want to…_

“You think I wanted to abduct you,” Malfoy said slowly. The wand light glowed in his eyes, so that they seemed to burn. “And bring you here, to the Servants, so they could have their revenge on you for killing their Dark Lord?” 

_I want it…_

He nodded, silently. He could feel himself going limp against the wall.

“Well, here you are,” Malfoy said, his eyes heavily lidded. Malfoy’s voice sounded like honey again. “Clearly I’m not as incompetent as you suppose.”

_I don’t care._

_Do whatever you want._

_I won’t fight you._

“Yeah, not _likely_ ,” Malfoy snapped, annoyance bristling in his voice. “Everything you just said is a complete fabrication. I have kept my word. I have been trying to help you find them. You’re not the easiest person to help. And what about my father? I told you I needed you to help me to protect him.” 

He straightened up as anger prickled over his skin. 

_You and your father and your shared lover can go to hell._

“You were lying,” he said. “You lie all the time.” 

“I’m only here to try to protect my father. He’s trying to kill Greyback and Dolohov. I never wanted to see any of them again. I hate them all.” Malfoy said. He looked miserable. After a few moments’ silence he muttered, “What do you need?” 

_What do you need?_

_I’ve gone mad_

_I’m here. I’m here with you. Breathe in._

He could see Malfoy breathing, see his chest rising and falling. 

_Count with me. One, two, three, four, five._

_Hold your breath. Now, let it out. Slowly._

“I need your robes,” he said. “I need to impersonate a Death Eater,” he explained quickly. 

One of Malfoy’s eyebrows quirked. He gestured to his head. “And what about this? I’d like to see you impersonate my face.” 

“Well…” he said. “Don’t you have a mask or something?” 

Malfoy sighed. “No, I don’t have a mask.” 

“Could you go and find one?” He suggested. 

“No,” Malfoy looked at him as if he were insane. “What are you talking about? I should just go around to all of the Servants going, excuse me, did you bring your mask along because my school rival needs to borrow it because he wants to crash this little party and curse you all beyond the veil?” 

He rolled his eyes. Malfoy was so dramatic. “So what’s your big idea, then?” 

“Me?” Malfoy retorted. “I don’t have a big idea! _You’re_ the one who sent me an owl saying you were in great danger and I practically fell over myself trying to get out of here—”

_You did?_

“And then you and Weasley come barging in here like a couple of raging Erumpents and you need me to rescue you anyway—”

“You did not _rescue_ me,” he said. “I was perfectly fine behind that vase.” 

Malfoy’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline. “You were perfectly fine behind the vase,” he repeated so as to make it sound like the most absurd statement ever.

_Yeah, I was, so shut up._

“And I only sent that owl to find out where this house was,” he added. 

“So why the message?” Malfoy asked.

He raised his eyebrow triumphantly. 

_Malfoy. I’m in great danger. Come as soon as you can._

“I thought it would get a response,” he said, chuckling with satisfaction.

_Touché._

Malfoy stared for a moment, but then the light of victory shone in his eyes and he purred, “So you _do_ believe I was really trying to help you.” 

“No!” He retorted. “‘Course not.” 

One corner of Malfoy’s lip curled, ever so slowly. 

“Rubbish,” he snapped. “I do not believe it for one second.” 

Malfoy had developed a fully-fledged evil smirk now. “Yes you did,” he said, crossing his arms. “You _knew_ I would come running to save you at the slightest hint of mortal danger.” 

He frowned. “Mortal danger? You wouldn’t know mortal danger if it bit you on the bum.” 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “I have a Dark Mark on my arm, Potter. I’m not the kind of wizard you want to fuck with.” 

_Yes you are._

“Is that the Dark Mark you paint on every morning to try to prove to everyone how evil you are?” He smirked right back at Malfoy. Malfoy was not the king of smirking. “In between petting your House Elves and customising vest tops?” 

Malfoy jabbed a finger at him and hissed, “I _knew_ you were jealous of my vest tops.” 

Then they both broke down in uncontrollable laughter. 


	86. Depersonalisation

**Draco**

He was laughing so hard the tears were streaming down his face. 

_This is the Potter I like_

When he finally stopped laughing, he couldn’t help just looking at Potter and grinning like an idiot, still chuckling.

_This is the Potter I love_

Potter had taken off his glasses to wipe his face. When he put them back on, Potter met his eyes and there was a tentative grin on his face, too.

They had both stopped laughing. Now they were just looking at each other. His heart started to pound. He felt as if his eyes were locked onto Potter’s like two sets of magnets drawn into each other’s field of influence. Something in his chest squirmed anxiously.

_Why is he looking at me?_

He swallowed and forced himself to break the eye contact.  

_There. You won the staring competition._

He couldn’t look at Potter like that. It did things to him. 

“You’ll be needing my robes, then,” he said, which felt like a very awkward thing to say after staring into Potter’s eyes for several long moments, even though it had just been Potter initiating a staring competition, or whatever.

Potter cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he shrugged. 

_But what will I wear?_

He wasn’t putting on whatever Potter was wearing, that was for sure. Potter, he was sorry to say it, was not particularly well groomed at the moment. 

_Are you joking?_

_He looks like a rough sleeper._

Potter was wearing the same clothes he had been during the Battle of Hogwarts. He remembered waiting for Potter to emerge from the bathroom at the Manor that first night after the Battle. The Elves must have laundered his clothes at that point. But since then…?

_Can someone help you in the bath?_

After Potter had woken up from the car accident, he distinctly remembered the Muggle doctor asking Potter this and then _looking at him_ as if he was Potter’s servant or something. 

_Ridiculous._

But it occurred to him that Potter _didn’t_ have anyone to help him in the bath. His mind tried to conjure the image of Ron Weasley pulling Potter’s t-shirt over his head and he frantically tried to stop it from doing any such thing. 

_Of course Potter doesn’t._

Potter had been bouncing between him and Dumbledore’s Army for the past few days, but they couldn’t have given him a very good reception. Surely _someone_ would have been willing to at least cast a waterproofing charm on Potter’s cast so he could take a shower. But Potter looked as if he had been sleeping in increasingly inhospitable environments and definitely had not had access to soap and hot water. 

_What were they thinking?_

_Couldn’t they at least give him basic human decency?_

Potter didn’t have any money on him. He had just been banging about, going here and there, with whoever would take him. He looked at Potter and felt himself fill up pity. He didn’t even know where Potter had slept some nights. What about the night when he had gotten drunk with Father? Where had Potter slept then? 

He just wanted to put his arms around Potter—well, okay. He wanted to stick Potter in a shower and burn the clothes he was wearing. And _then_ put his arms around him. He sighed. 

_You’re just going to have to get Potter through it as best as you can._

He folded his arms. “What was your plan, coming in here?” He asked. 

_Oops._

_Wrong question._

Potter’s eyes flashed and he could see that obstinate chin jutting out again. “Why should I tell you?” 

He put his hands on hips. “Because I saved your life before and I’ll do it again, but I’d like the surprises to come from the enemy, not from my own ally.” 

Potter stared at him. 

Maybe because he’d described the Servants as enemies. Maybe because he’d described Potter as an ally. “Did you _have_ a plan?” He asked. “You had a plan, right?” 

Potter just crossed his arms and stared. 

“You’re not going to tell me,” he said, and he didn’t feel angry. He felt sad. 

_Potter doesn’t trust me._

_He just point blank doesn’t trust me._

He started unbuttoning his robes. He wouldn’t ask any more questions. He would just stick to Potter like glue and try to stop him from getting himself killed. That was what he was here for, after all.

 _I_ know _Potter doesn’t trust me._

But it still hurt for some reason. After everything he had done… surely he had proved himself, if only a little bit? 

_I’ll read them. I’ll read them through for you._

Potter had stared right at him as he tore up those newspapers. 

_He hates me._

_Draco, he hates you._

_Like Pansy said, he treats you like shit._

While they were joking together, he’d wanted to kiss Potter. Now he just wanted to get away from Potter and the pain of being rejected yet again. The pain of knowing he wasn’t good enough and never would be.

Potter was watching him. He shrugged off the robes, pulling off the long sleeves and stepping out of the skirts. “Here,” he said, holding the robes out for Potter to take. 

_I hate them anyway._

Potter took the robes, and Potter’s eyes shifted around, landing on him, then flicking away. 

_Is he looking at me?_

He felt a little exposed, and the idea that Potter had _looked_ at him sent a warm thrill through the core of his body. 

_Potter was looking at me._

Then Potter’s eyes landed on him, and then Potter’s eyes ran up his body. Slowly. From his ankles to his choker necklace. 

The warm thrill turned cold and sickly. Now he did feel exposed, and he felt a strong urge to grab back the black robes and drape them to hide himself. “It’s not polite,” he said. “To stare.” 

Potter coloured and dropped his gaze. He muttered, “When you dress like that…”

“Excuse me?” Anger flared within him.  

Potter, folding the traditional robes over one arm, met his eyes. “If you dress like that, why are you surprised I’m looking?” 

_Oh, Hecate no._

If Potter was going to do it, he was going to make Potter as embarrassed as he could about it. “Why am I surprised that you’re ogling my body?” 

“Isn’t that why you wear them?” Potter said defensively. “So people will look at you?” 

He could feel his eyebrows ascending his forehead swiftly. “Is that what you say to girls as well?” 

Potter laughed. “Are you bonkers? Who would _say_ that?” 

“Yeah,” he said sarcastically. “Who would admit it out loud? That you come up with all these pathetic excuses for violating another person’s boundaries?” 

Potter shook his head. “ _I_ do? Jesus, Malfoy—”

“Blame me, blame the clothes, it’s just excuses,” he felt incredibly tired all of a sudden. He hated these arguments. They never went anywhere. 

“Take it as a compliment, why don’t you?” Potter said, sounding angry now. 

“It’s not a compliment to make someone feel uncomfortable. Have some respect.” 

Potter looked shocked. “Respect?” His voice rose. “You didn’t exactly show _respect_ when you started telling everyone that you had your way with me in the Quidditch showers, did you?” 

_Oh…no_

He had hoped and prayed for all of it to just go away. He had hoped and prayed, but it had just gotten bigger and bigger and spread further and further…

“Is that what people think, Malfoy?” Potter was tense now, his body squared, his good arm half raised. “Do they think that you buggered me?” 

He crossed his arms tightly over his body. 

Potter looked like he could barely get the words out. “Do they think that you raped me?” 

He stared at the floor, waves of shame washing over him so strong that he could barely stand, barely stand to be in his body at this instant. His voice was barely audible. “I showed you what I told Myrtle.” 

“Yeah, I saw that,” Potter spat. “The entire thing disgusted me. You had no right—to even be thinking about me like that—”

He couldn’t look at Potter. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“Why?” Potter said, his face red, a tendon standing out in his neck, as if he was about to launch himself into an attack. “Why did you do it?” 

He shook his head. “That was… Potter, that was the first time I…” He looked up quickly at Potter, then down again. “Confided in her.” 

He listened to Potter’s harsh breathing. “She told me about you in sixth year,” Potter’s voice grated. “You went crying to her all the time.” 

“I cried,” he said. “That was the only honest part of it. The whole of sixth year, I kept telling her that I was trying to kill Dumbledore. I told her everything. How I was going to do it—the cursed necklace, Imperiusing Madame Rosmerta, the Vanishing Cabinet to let the Servants in.” 

“Yeah,” Potter said. “I know. I heard you snivelling that Riddle was going to kill you.” 

“None of it made any difference,” he said. “It didn’t work. Nothing happened. Eventually I realised—”

“What do you mean,” Potter said. “It didn’t work?” 

He glanced up at Potter. “Dumbledore knew everything,” he said. “And he did absolutely nothing.” 

Potter stared back at him. 

“Snape knew all the details,” he said. “I kept him updated basically on a daily basis. But it became clear he wasn’t going to do anything. So I needed to spread the word. Maybe another teacher would intervene. Or if other students heard, they might do something. So I told Myrtle,” he said. “She spread the story to all the ghosts. I thought surely someone would do something. I thought they _had_ to expel me. But they just… let me carry on. You were the only one who seemed to catch on. But you didn’t manage to do anything about it either…” 

“I _went_ to teachers,” Potter said. “But they didn’t think you were anything to worry about.” 

“See?” He said.  

“B-But—” Potter stuttered, then fell silent. He seemed lost for words.

He sighed. “Anyway, I started out wth good intentions. I really didn’t… tell her anything for a long time. I knew…” his voice sank to a near whisper. “I knew she couldn’t be trusted with secrets.” 

“So _why did you do it_?” Potter’s voice came back hard and loud. 

He shrugged. “Self-destructive behaviour?” 

“That’s bollocks,” Potter said. “Utter bollocks.” 

_No… I think I was trying everything I could to hurt myself at that time._

_Unfortunately my actions also ended up hurting you…_

“You must have been lapping it up,” Potter spat. “I bet you and the Death Eaters were rolling around on the floor laughing.” 

“I don’t think rape is a joke. I thought it was going to happen to me once I joined the Servants.” He glanced at Potter. 

Potter looked back at him silently. 

He nodded. “Father was furious at me when I stopped hiding my feminine side. He thought it would encourage them. He tried to get me to stop. But I refused.” 

Potter didn’t say anything. 

_Once the rumour got out, they saw me differently._

_They didn’t see me as weak. Or, not so weak as they did._

_They moved on to other victims._

_I…_

He had been grateful. 

_Like the coward I was…_

“I’m sorry about the rumours, Potter,” he said uselessly. 

“Whatever,” Potter muttered, hoisting the robes in one hand and trying to arrange them so that he could step into them. But with only one arm, he couldn’t get the robes into the right position.

He just stood there. Potter would need to ask for help eventually. 

Potter finally let the robes fall to the ground and used his foot to nudge the robes into an open circle. He stepped into the middle, crouched down and pulled up the collar, so he was now inside the robes. 

_That’s actually quite clever._

Potter was clearly used to doing things for himself. He would have broken down and asked for help, even if it was from Potter. 

Potter shrugged his good arm into the right sleeve and then started on the tricky business of getting his broken arm in its cast into the other. 

“What are you going to say happened to my arm?” He asked. 

Potter shrugged. He had the shoulder of the robe on, but now the sleeve was hanging down straight and his cast was at a 90 degree angle. Potter let the shoulder fall. They had given him a foam rubber sling to go around his neck which held the cast up so he didn’t need to move his arm or make any effort to hold it up. He took the sling off and let it drop to the floor, then hooked his cast into the robes and started trying to get his hand into the sleeve opening. He made it, but then the cast came up against the angle of the sleeve and refused to go any further. Potter tried to force it, which made the cast get even more stuck. Potter stood there, panting, frowning the sleeve in annoyance. He reached his good arm around and with great difficulty managed to tug on the sleeve so that it went over the cast, and then he fed the sleeve over the cast, twisting his shoulder downward to fit the shape of the robes, and finally got the sleeve all the way on. 

_Great work._

_And no-one needed to help you._

Potter tugged the front of the robes into relative order and looked at the row of concealed buttons which ran from the stif collar to just below the navel. He tried to do the bottom button up with one hand. He fumbled, getting increasingly frustrated. He brought his broken arm over and tried to use that, but his fingers couldn’t move well in the cast, which was wrapped around his palm and thumb, and they were no help to the other hand. 

Finally Potter huffed and stood there, silently, looking at the buttons. 

_I’m waiting._

He expected to feel slightly triumphant when Potter finally muttered, “I can’t do these buttons.” 

But he didn’t. Potter must be incredibly embarrassed to have to ask him, someone he hated, someone who had humiliated him, to help him like this. He went to Potter but tried to keep his distance as much as he could, reaching out and starting to button the lowest button. He made sure not to touch any part of Potter and he didn’t look at him. 

Potter took a step toward him. 

_What is he doing?_

Now instead of his arms needing to reach out, they were close by his body, and Potter was right in front of him. 

“That’s easier,” Potter muttered.

Potter was a little shorter than him. Two inches at most. They had been the same height for years. Potter was still going to grow a little. 

_Don’t think about that._

He could smell Potter. Potter didn’t smell _bad._ He smelled _strong._ He didn’t know how to describe it, but it was making his head swim. He had finished about half of the buttons. He tried not to breathe in. He tried to go faster. Potter’s scent seemed to be flowing through his entire body. He could just feel Potter’s breath tickling the tiny hairs on his neck and face. 

_Oh, Hecate._

There were only a few more buttons. His hands were at Potter’s chest now. He had the strangest feeling that Potter was looking at him. He raised his eyes. Potter was looking at him. 

_Oh, Hecate._

_Why is he doing that?_

He didn’t stop. His heart was in his throat. He reached the second to last button, which was at the base of Potter’s throat. Potter blinked slowly.

_Oh, Hecate, Potter._

He turned his face away as he reached the final button. His fingers brushed Potter’s Adam’s apple and he flinched and pulled his hands away as if they had been burned. 

_One button undone is fine. No-one will mind._

He backed away and smoothed his hair down nervously. “Right,” he said, needing to break the silence. “I, er—” He had stuck his hands in his pockets for something to do and realised there were potions bottles in there. He had forgotten about that. He pulled one out of each pocket and looked at them. 

_Skele-gro._

_Polyjuice._

“Here,” he said, holding the Skele-gro out to Potter. “I brought you this.” 

Potter looked at it. “Skele-gro?” He blinked. 

“It will heal your arm,” he explained. “The bone has already been set. So if you drink this now your arm will be healed by tomorrow morning.” 

Potter took it. “How do I know this isn’t something else, with a Skele-gro label?” He said, looking him in the eye. 

He had no idea if Potter was joking or if he was serious. “What would it be?” 

Potter used one thumbnail to pierce the wax coating and push the cork out of the mouth of the tiny vial. Then he tipped the potion down his throat. He grimaced. “Ugh. I remember that taste. I had to drink a huge bottle of that when Lockhart Vanished the bones in my arm.” 

He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or not. “That dose is enough for two or three fractures. So you should be fine.” 

The bottle of Polyjuice potion was getting warm and moist in his hand. He bit his lip. “Potter,” he said, holding it out. “There’s… there’s this as well.” 

Potter took it from him, read the label and then looked at him in surprise. 

He swallowed thickly. He ran a hand through his hair and when he pulled his hand away, one or two strands of hair were caught in his fingers. “If… if you want to,” he said, holding out his hand. 

Potter stared back at him. 

“There’s one dose there,” he said. “It’s enough for an hour.” 

Potter looked at the potion, then at his outstretched hand, then at him. 

_Potter, I love you._

_That’s why I would do this for you._

_But you don’t understand that._

He let his hand drop. “It was just an idea.”

“No,” Potter said, taking a step forward. “It’s a good idea.” Potter reached out, and he realised Potter was reaching for his hand. Potter only had one hand free, and it was clutching the bottle of Polyjuice. 

He stepped toward Potter, took the bottle of Polyjuice out of his hand and unstoppered it. Potter picked a hair from his hand and held it up. It glinted faintly in the low light. 

“Looks like a veela hair,” Potter muttered. 

_What?_

_What does he mean by that?_

Probably just that. His hair _was_ the same colour as a Veela’s hair. Veela hair was used as a potions ingredient. They had used them before, in Potions lessons. 

_That’s all he means._

_Oh, look at you… my pretty little Veela._

Potter placed the hair into the mouth of tiny glass vial. He handed it to Potter. “I’m going to turn away,” he said. “Looking at Polyjuice versions of myself gives me depersonalisation.” 

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Just… don’t talk once you’ve transformed. The whole thing just gives me the creeps. I can’t stand it.”

He turned away. 

“Hang on a mo’,” Potter said. “If I’ve taken the Skele-gro, can I take this cast off? It’s going to be difficult being you with my arm in a cast. How am I going to explain that?” 

“I don’t know. I’m not a Healer. You should probably keep it on.” 

“I’m taking it off,” Potter said. 

“Well, you shouldn’t use the arm, then,” he said. “You should keep it in the sling.” 

“Malfoy,” Potter said. “I’m not going to go about with my arm in a bloody sling. It’s been obnoxious enough having this thing on for the past couple of days.” 

“Potter, you might damage it!” He snapped. “How stupid are you? Your arm is _broken_!” 

Potter stared at him defiantly, pointed his wand at his arm and said, “ _Evanesco._ ”

He turned around. 

“And don’t _speak_ once you’ve taken that potion!” He said. “I don’t want to hear my own voice come out of another being."

_Why am I arguing with him?_

Potter wasn’t getting any better. In his opinion, Potter was getting worse. 

“Why are the Death Eaters meeting tonight?” Potter said, still in his own voice. “I need to know before I go out there.” 

“They’re having a barbecue,” he replied. 

“A barbecue??” Potter spluttered.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he drawled. “It’s only giant calamari night. You see, they harpooned the Giant Squid just before dawn of the Battle and have had him on ice ever since.” 

Potter did not laugh.

_Oh, fuck._

He wasn’t laughing either. 

_I need to tell him about Kazimir Dolohov._

_I can’t let him go out there without explaining…_

“And, er,” he said. “I should tell you that Antonin Dolohov’s son is courting me.” 

“I’m sorry?” Potter said. 

“His name is Kazimir. He’s sort of tall, with dark hair—”

“That’s your boyfriend, right?” 

He froze. “No,” he said into the silence. “No, he’s not.” 

_Why does he think I have a boyfriend?_

_Where did he get the idea that Kazimir Dolohov is my boyfriend?_

“I never met him before tonight,” he said. “His father wants him to marry me.” 

“ _Marry_?” Potter spluttered some more. “But he’s a _bloke_.” 

“And?”  

“Well…” Potter trailed off.

“You _know_ how traditional my family is,” he pointed out. 

“I—but—I mean—” Potter seemed to have lost his command of English.

“I’m not interested,” he replied. “So don’t go giving him the wrong idea or anything.” Then he burst out laughing, because it was sort of ridiculous to imagine Potter giving Kazimir Dolohov the wrong idea.

Potter didn’t say anything. “What if he tries something?” He said eventually, in a deeply uncomfortable voice.

“Hecate wept, Potter, it’s a _courtship_ of _marriage_?” He said, exasperated. 

“You told me yourself that you were afraid of the Death Eaters—” Potter protested. 

“This courtship is the real deal. Dolohov’s playing a different game now, I don’t know what exactly.” he said. “Riddle liked to let his pack run wild. It…excited him. But Dolohov’s a different animal entirely. He’s political. The House of Malfoy is still valuable—politically—and he’s trying to let me and my Father know that’s where his priorities lie.” He paused. “At least… I think that’s what he’s doing.” 

“Er,” Potter said. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I don’t think we have time to go into it now.” 

“Maybe you could have told me this stuff a few days ago,” Potter said, sounding annoyed. 

“Really?” He said, highly amused, except that he wasn’t. “When have you listened to a single word I have said ever since we’ve been together?” 

Potter didn’t reply. He stood there. Since he had told Potter not to say anything, all he heard when Potter left was the sound of the door closing behind him. 

_Well._

_There he goes._

_Now I need to figure out how to keep him safe while he’s away._


	87. Wax And Roses, Gold And Silver

**Harry**

His heart was racing as he raised the potion to his lips and drank.   
****

_I’m going to turn into Malfoy._

_Alright, I’m going to_ look _like Malfoy._

Malfoy had turned his back on him, so he didn’t see when he swallowed the potion. He swallowed quickly. It was dark enough that he couldn’t see exactly what colour the Polyjuice Potion had turned, but every time he had taken it, the taste had been foul. 

_It tastes…_

The potion was delicious. It was sweet—sort of creamy. He didn’t even swallow. He just stood there, in awe, letting the flavour waft through him. It tasted so good, in fact, that he found himself trying to get the last few drops out of the tiny bottle. So good that he wished there was more. He would have drunk another vial. He would have drunk a pint of the stuff. He found himself gazing at Malfoy’s back almost hungrily. As if he kissed Malfoy it would taste like that. 

_It tasted so good._

He realised that he had changed. He hadn’t even noticed the change because he’d been so wrapped up in the taste of the potion. But he realised now that he was warm all over and his heart was racing. That had to be an effect of the potion. He felt taller. He looked down at his hands and they were different. Instead of his own nail-bitten hands he saw long, pale, elegant fingers.

_I’m Malfoy now._

_Go._

_You need to go._

He turned and left the small, dark room where they had been talking for the past twenty minutes. He felt alert, alive. His heart was racing. More than anything, he wanted to look at himself in the mirror. 

_That wasn’t Malfoy’s boyfriend._

_Does that mean Malfoy is single?_

It wasn’t like he cared. It didn’t matter to him if Malfoy was single or not. Of course he didn’t care. 

_I need to get Ron._

_Ron is upstairs._

_And Malfoy’s…. what’s the word?_

_Suitor._

_Malfoy’s suitor is upstairs._

He almost wanted to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of what Malfoy had just told him. Wizards could marry each other? Did that apply to witches too? And it was _traditional_? Ha! 

_Good one, Malfoy._

Malfoy was probably high on that stuff he smoked. Or drunk. Or a combination of the two. What did Malfoy know? He realised he was practically running down the corridor. 

_Fuck it!_

He broke into a run. It felt fantastic. His heart was pumping and his blood was racing and every breath felt like fierce joy. He reached the vestibule and started taking th stairs two at a time. 

_This is brilliant._

_Polyjuice has never been like this before._

His head was filled with Malfoy. He couldn’t stop thinking about that moment when Malfoy had come toward him. 

_You think I wanted to abduct you and bring you here, to the Servants,_

_so they could have their revenge on you for killing their Dark Lord?_

He reached the top of the stairs with a leap that took him halfway across the landing. 

_Yes._

_Yes, yes, yes._

He straightened up, and went into stealth mode. He looked either way. There were two hallways stretching out on either side. Again he was reminded of Malfoy Manor. 

_Ron is somewhere down one of these hallways._

_Also, Malfoy’s future husband._

_Which will you choose?_

He decided to go left. The first door he came to, he tried. It was locked. 

_That doesn’t mean Ron isn’t in there._

_You might need to come back to it._

He kept walking. He tried a second door. It was locked. He laughed silently to himself. 

_Third time’s…._

_the charm!_

The third door opened. He drew it back with a flourish. It was a sitting room, filled with gaudy furniture covered in zebra stripes. Several half-drunk glasses of wine stood on a table. There was no-one there. 

He moved on to the fourth door. Locked again. 

_Is there even anyone up here?_

The fifth door, however, he didn’t open, because he could hear voices inside. He wished he had a Weasley Twins Extendable Ear on him right at that moment—but he didn’t. He placed his ear right next to the door and listened intently. 

“Here, right here. See that? That’s what you need to focus on. Give it all your attention. I mean simply everything.” 

_A girl?_

_Who is that?_

_What is she talking about?_

“Oh, no!” The girl’s high pitched laughter carried through the wooden doors. “That’s not right at all, you don’t want to be doing _that._ ” 

He could hear a lower male voice replying. Was it Ron? 

"You need to ask her,” the girl’s voice said—she must have been closer to the door—“you need to make her show you  _exactly_ how she likes it—”

He was so shocked he actually took a step back and stared at the door in outrage. 

 _What are they_ talking _about?_

_Who is Ron talking to?_

He was so taken aback that he barely heard the voice behind him. 

“Draco,” the voice said again. 

He jumped about a mile high and spun around seemingly in mid-air. Standing in the middle of the hallway behind him was the man he now recognised as Kazimir Dolohov. He said ‘man’ because he was clearly not a kid any more. That said, he was young. He must have been in his early twenties at most. 

Kazimir Dolohov smiled slightly. “How is our prisoner?” 

_Er._

He had expected Dolohov to upbraid him in some way. Tell him off for listening at the keyhole. But Dolohov was just standing there, with that small smile on his face. 

_What does a Death Eater say to another Death Eater?_

“You have been occupied with matters downstairs,” Dolohov said. He was very polite. Every time Dolohov spoke, he expected greasiness or smarm, but Dolohov seemed… _nice._

 _You just called a Death Eater_ nice. 

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, I have.” It was really strange to hear Malfoy’s voice—and Malfoy’s extremely posh accent—coming out of his own mouth. 

_Well, Mafoy’s mouth._

_Malfoy’s mouth._

“If I may humbly beg…” Dolohov said with a small bow, “I would like to finish our conversation.” 

“Er…okay,” he said, aware that he sounded absolutely nothing like Malfoy in terms of what he was saying. Malfoy was quite articulate. _Very_ articulate. 

Dolohov held out his hand to the next door, on the opposite side of the hallway, opened the door and held it open for him. He went inside. It was another room similar to the zebra chair room, filled with chairs and low tables and with big oil paintings in gilt frames on the walls. “Please,” Dolohov said, leading him to a set of sofas and armchairs surrounding a table on which there stood a bottle of wine in a metal bucket full of ice and two empty glasses. There were also fresh flowers on the table, and candles burning. The lights were actually quite low in the room. 

 _Hecate wept, Potter, it’s a_ courtship _of_ marriage _._

He sat down, feeling incredibly awkward. Dolohov was about to take his seat when he paused. “Excuse me,” he said. “I do beg your gracious pardon. I—I must attend to some duty. I will return. I do apologise most humbly.” Dolohov bowed deeply and quickly left the room. 

_What’s his deal?_

He sincerely hoped Malfoy was right. From what he knew, a courtship was an old-fashioned thing where a bloke tried to get permission to marry a girl through various sorts of noble deeds. He wondered what sorts of feats Kazimir Dolohov was going to perform in order to try to win the hand of Draco Malfoy.  On the bright side, he was pretty sure courtship dated from the no-sex-before-marriage times, which was presumably what Malfoy had been trying to reassure him about. 

He crossed one leg over the other and swung his leg idly. Malfoy moved so elegantly. He didn’t feel as elegant as Malfoy looked. He realised there was a mirror above the mantlepiece. He got up and walked toward it.  

The only light in the room came from candles and there was a large candelabra burning on each side of the mantlepiece, eight flames dancing and swaying on each side. When he saw Malfoy approaching, his heart leapt into his throat.

_Oh my god_

_He’s so beautiful._

The room was rather airless and the heat from the candles was mixing with the scent of fresh flowers which were arranged in vases next to the candelabra. The smell of wax and roses filled his nostrils as he went toward the mirror. 

He went toward the chimneypiece feeling as if Malfoy was walking toward him. The soft candlelight made Malfoy glow gold and silver. Gold and ivory. Staring into Malfoy’s eyes had never been more thrilling than it was at this moment, as he reached the mantlepiece and rested Malfoy’s hands against the cool marble. He was nose to nose with Malfoy now, just the cold, hard surface of the mirror on the tip of his nose to remind him that Malfoy wasn’t there. He stared into Malfoy’s eyes. The silver was luminous beneath his long black eyelashes. He could see the fine pores on Malfoy’s cheeks. He reached up Malfoy’s hand to touch his smooth jaw. With two fingers he touched Malfoy’s lips. His heart was pounding as if he had just run the hundred yard dash. He put one hand on his chest to steady his heart and felt, just faintly, the relief outlines of the scar Malfoy carried there. 

_He does have a scar._

_He has a scar from where I cursed him._

He put Malfoy’s hand down and his hand brushed against his thigh. 

_There’s something in the pocket of these robes._

He put his hand into the pocket and pulled out another small bottle. Holding it up in the candlelight, he read the label out loud in a whisper. “Amortentia.” 

_Amortentia._

_Amortentia._

He dropped the bottle and almost felt as if he were going to drop to the ground. 

_Here. I brought this for you._

_For your arm._

Malfoy had brought Skele-gro. He had brought Polyjuice Potion. And…the one potion Malfoy must have forgotten to take out of his robes before handing them over to him. 

_Malfoy brought Amortentia._

Malfoy had been planning to use the Amortentia on him after all. 

_I knew it._

_I knew it!_

He picked up the bottle from where it had fallen on the richly-battened carpet and stared at it. If Malfoy had used this on him… 

_What would I have done?_

_What would I have let Malfoy do to me?_

He glanced at the mirror and his heart leapt into his mouth again because Malfoy’s beautiful face was staring back at him, lit by candlelight and deepened by shadow. He looked at the bottle and went back to the mirror again. He spoke to the face looking back at him and saw his words form on its lips. “You want me to tell you to fuck me, don’t you?” Malfoy was breathing faster, his lips parted, white teeth showing just behind. “You want to fuck me.” 

Malfoy’s hands were trembling as he looked at the bottle. It was tiny. How much was one dose? 

Malfoy’s eyes flickered to the shoulder of his robes. Resting between the shoulder and the collar was something which glinted faintly— it was a hair. Malfoy’s fingers pulled at the hair and held it before his eyes, long, practically transparent, with just a silvery sheen where the light caught it. He thought of Malfoy’s vampire kiss rendering him powerless.

_Does it work the same way as Polyjuice?_

He tore the wax seal and cork off the top of the bottle with Malfoy’s white teeth and spat them out. He thought of the delicious flavour of that Polyjuice potion and how much he wanted to see if Malfoy’s mouth tasted like that. He carefully inserted the silver hair into the mouth of the vial of Amortentia.

_I told Myrtle that I had feelings for you._

_I still have them._

He tipped the potion into his mouth. 

_Yes._

It tasted the same. Almost exactly the same. Sweet, creamy, full, and somehow richly satisfying, like a salted caramel or a really good mug of Butterbeer. He didn’t swallow. He just held it in his mouth as long as he could, savouring the taste as it rose through his nose. His mouth watered so much that he had to swallow, but the taste remained, coating his tongue. He looked into the mirror and Malfoy smiled at him. His stomach, then his whole body filled with jitters. He felt a burst of happiness so intense he thought he could ride a broomstick to the moon. 

_But there’s no Malfoy on the moon._

He stood in front of the mirror and stared at Malfoy. 

_Gorgeous._

“Draco,” Dolohov had returned. He walked briskly into the room, not seeming to notice that he was standing in front of the mirror and gazing at himself. Dolohov looked ruffled. “We must postpone our talk. Your assistance is needed. Another prisoner has been taken.” 

“Oh,” he said, and thrilled to hear the sound of Malfoy’s voice. 

Dolohov came over to him. “You must speak to the prisoners and get information.” 

He frowned. “Why would they speak to me?” 

Dolohov looked at him pointedly. “Because you are—what is the word—ah—informer.” 

_Er…_

Malfoy was an informer? Someone must have found out about Malfoy giving himself up after the Battle of Hogwarts. 

_Wait a mo…_

If the Death Eaters _knew_ that Malfoy had gone over to their side, then wouldn’t that put him in a lot of danger right now?

_Or is Malfoy a double agent like Snape was?_

But Snape hadn’t really been a _double_ agent, had he? Wasn’t a double agent supposed to work for _both_ sides? Snape had turned out to be loyal to Dumbledore. So he was essentially a spy for Dumbledore, living among the Death Eaters. 

_Dolohov seems perfectly calm about Malfoy been an informer._

Was Malfoy actually a spy for the Death Eaters, trying to infiltrate the good side? Had Malfoy been trying to infiltrate Dumbledore’s Army? Maybe Malfoy was supposed to be like Snape—stay on their side for years and years, until people sort of trusted him. And all the while he would be sending their secrets back to the Death Eaters. 

_Malfoy begged me to let him stay with me._

_And not be separated._

He would like to see Malfoy begging him again. 

He looked at Dolohov. “Lead me to them.” 

Dolohov motioned for him to follow. They walked out of the room with the candlelight and flowers, back into the hallway and to the door a little farther down where he had heard Ron talking to that girl earlier. Dolohov used his wand to perform a complicated-looking unlocking spell, then opened the door for him. 

It was a bedroom. An enormous, hulking carved wooden bed sat in the middle of the room. Pansy Parkinson stood opposite the bed, standing very still with her hands clasped in front of her, one hand holding her wand at the ready. When she saw them, she bowed her head slightly and then returned to looking directly at the bed. Lying bound and gagged on the bed were Ron, Dean Thomas and Luna Lovegood. Dean Thomas spotted him and jerked his head in a gesture which was somehow threatening. 

_Dean?_

It took him that long to remember that he was Polyjuiced to look like Malfoy at the moment. He raised his hand and felt Malfoy’s hair with his fingers. It felt like silk. The slicked back style Malfoy had been wearing tonight didn’t seem to have transferred over. Malfoy’s hair kept falling in his face. He tucked one strand behind Malfoy’s ear. 

He turned to Dolohov and tried to sound like Malfoy. “Leave us,” he said imperiously, with a wave of Malfoy’s hand. 

Dolohov, far from looking offended, bowed his head respectfully. There was a gleam in his eyes as he looked at Malfoy, then turned and left the room. 

_I think he actually likes Malfoy._

“Alright,” he said in the same bossy tone—one he had never heard Malfoy use, he realised, and stood in front of the bed and crossed his arms, and looked at the three of them. 

He saw Malfoy out of the corner of his eye and his stomach lurched wildly. 

_He’s there._

He realised it was a full-length mirror placed in one corner of the room and into whose reflection he had just walked. He glanced at it. Malfoy stared back at him. He swallowed nervously, his heart pounding. The Amortentia was not having the same effect on him as it had on Ron.

_After all, that potion was out of date._

He was fine, actually. Perfectly fine. He forced himself to focus on the three Gryffindors lying on the bed.

_I’m fine. But Malfoy won’t be._

Because now that he had taken the Amortentia, he could finally find out what Malfoy’s true motivation was. 

_See how much I am willing to sacrifice for you lot?_

_For the good of wizard kind?_

He raised Malfoy’s wand and with a flicking motion, removed the gag from Luna’s mouth. “Speak,” he commanded. 

“Bugger yourself with a splintery broomstick!” Luna spat, and the other two on the bed burst into muffled laughter. “ ___” 

He stared at her, then burst into laughter himself. Luna was propped up against the headboard, while the other two were lying flat on their backs side by side

Aware that everyone was staring at him, he quickly turned to Pansy Parkinson, cast _Petrificus Totalus_ and then held up his hands and said, “It’s Harry! I’m under Polyjuice.” 

He expected everyone to laugh some more, but instead the faces of Ron, Dean and Luna fell like they’d been launched off a cliff. Luna sat up and said in a highly offended tone, “Let Pansy go, for Merlin’s sake!” 

He stared at her. “What?”

“Pansy!” Luna barked. “Reverse the curse!” 

He glanced at Pansy Parkinson, who had toppled to the floor and was lying there motionless. “Er…. why?” 

It was so strange to be talking in Malfoy’s voice all the time. He glanced at the mirror and saw Malfoy look back at him. He knew it was just a reflection in a mirror, but that glance sent a bolt straight into his heart. 

“She’s one of us, you numpty!” Luna snapped. 

_What?_

He frowned at Pansy, then looked at Luna. “Luna, you’re not acting like yourself…”

Was it really Luna Lovegood? Or was _she_ Polyjuiced, too? 

Luna stared back at him for a moment, and when she spoke again her voice had a little more of the dreamy tone he was used to from her. “You’re not acting like yourself, Harry Potter. Look at you.” 

He glanced at the mirror again. He wished Malfoy was here right now. The real Malfoy, not just the reflection. 

They were all staring at him silently. 

_What?_

He thought it was rather a brilliant idea to Polyjuice into Malfoy. For one thing, he was able to save their bacon now. 

_Without me you’d be stuck here, wouldn’t you?_

He pointed his wand at Pansy and muttered, “ _Finite Incantatem_.” 

Pansy got up, dusted herself off and looked him up and down. “I never thought I’d see the day,” she giggled, then went and sat down on the bed with the others. It was an absolutely enormous bed, which was he supposed why it could hold so many of them. “So, _Harry_ ,” she said. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m fine,” he muttered. “So you’re in Dumbledore’s Army as well?” 

“Quick on the uptake, isn’t he?” She quipped to the others with a grin. 

“Could you let Dean and Ron speak?” Luna said to him pointedly. 

He was so befuddled by everything that was going on, he had forgotten about them. They were still lying there with their mouths sealed shut. “ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” he muttered. 

“Merlin,” Ron muttered, “this is a bit rum, isn’t it?” He was still lying flat on his back and could only move his head slightly to look at Dean. 

“Rum?” Dean replied. “I’ll perform an Unforgivable for a bit of rum right now!”

The two boys broke into raucous laughter. 

_What’s so funny?_

“Harry, what happened down there?” Ron asked. “Where were you? You were supposed to back me up. I didn’t feel much back up from you, mate.” 

He glanced at Ron, then crossed his arms over his chest. He had been a bit distracted. 

_No I wasn’t._

_Malfoy came and stood in front of that vase._

“Malfoy blocked me,” he muttered. “Made sure I couldn’t do anything.” 

He went a bit closer, but didn’t feel comfortable enough to sit down on the edge of the bed with them. 

_Do they all blame me for the Battle of Hogwarts?_

_Do they all think it’s my fault?_

“Whatever,” Ron muttered. “Don’t undo these ropes, by the way. If anyone comes back, they can’t know anything’s wrong.” 

_What?_

_Is Ron…_

_in on this?_

_With Dean and Luna?_

_Did he plan this?_

“What’s going on?” He asked. “Why are you two here?” He nodded at Dean and Luna. 

Luna tilted her head to one side and smiled vaguely. “Don’t worry about that, Harry. It’s really nothing to do with you. Why don’t you just try to stay out of trouble?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Just don’t bugger anything else up for us, alright?” 

Pansy giggled. 

“Shut up!” He snapped at her, and the sound of Malfoy’s voice shocked him. 

“Oi!” Dean said. “Don’t you speak to her that way.” 

“How can you trust her?” He said. “She’s a _Slytherin_.” 

“And?” Dean said, although he could only look at him out of the corner of his eye since he was still lying on his back. “We don’t tar people with the same brush just because they were sorted into Slytherin.” 

He shook his head. “That’s a mistake. She’ll betray you.” 

Luna stared at him with her bulging eyes. “You’re the one who betrayed us, Harry Potter.” 

_What?_

_No I didn’t._

“You’re mad,” he muttered. “You’re all mad.” 

They all looked at each other.

“I think you’d better leave,” Luna said. 

“Leave?” He spat the word out as if it tasted bad. He looked at all of them. They looked unconcerned. “Ron, you’re—you’re very quiet,” he said. He blinked. 

_Malfoy cries so easily._

_Just my luck to be in his body right now._

“You should go back to the house, mate,” Ron said, without looking at him. 

_But… you…_

_I thought we were a team again._

“We’ve got this under control,” Pansy said. “It will all be over soon. Just find somewhere to hide until it’s over.” 

_Hide._

_You want me to hide._

“Not likely,” he retorted. “I may look like Malfoy, but that doesn’t mean I’ve turned into a complete anorak.” 

“Ooh,” Dean Thomas muttered. “That was a sick burn.” 

Pansy giggled. 

“Are you _defending_ Malfoy?” He snapped at Dean.

“We don’t trust you any more, Harry,” Luna said, goggling at him with her enormous eyes. 

He blinked furiously. 

_Stupid Malfoy’s eyes._

He looked from her, to Dean, who wasn’t looking at him, to Ron, who was staring at the ceiling. 

“Ron?” He said. “Ron?” He could hear Malfoy’s stupid voice breaking. 

“Just go, Harry,” Ron said. 

He stood there. 

_Again._

_Ron did it again._

He turned and left the room as quickly as he could. 


	88. Servant's Passage

**Draco**

“Ow. Fuck.” He had stubbed his toe. He was looking for some kind of lamp or light to illuminate the room he and Potter had been standing in. He had cast _Lumos_ when they entered and he had become so caught up in arguing with Potter that it hadn’t even occurred to him to try to find the lights.   
****

_Ah._

His wand light found a lamp sitting on an antique sideboard. He touched it hesitantly. That was usually enough to turn on a lamp. It came to life, and brought with a number of other lamps around the room. 

_Oh._

He was surprised to find that the room was much larger than he’d thought. He and Potter had been standing in a fairly narrow entrance which opened up into a spacious… library. 

_Oh…_

It bore a distinct similarity to the library at Malfoy Manor. 

_How can he have seen the family wing?_

No-one was allowed in there except for the immediate family. When the Servants had come to stay, the family wing had been sealed off so that only he, Father, Mum and Sir could get in there. 

He frowned. 

_I don’t understand._

He couldn’t worry about this right now. Whatever it was, Father would have to explain it to him later. Right now, he needed to find something to wear and he needed to get out of here and find out what was happening. All he was wearing was his short shorts and a new spaghetti strap top he had picked up while shopping the other day. It was stretchy, so it fit really tight, and it was covered in horizontal stripes of different thicknesses in purple, blue, black and white. He loved it. 

_But it’s not really Servant appropriate attire._

_Although ironically it is quite good poolwear._

He scanned the room looking for signs of a wardrobe or coat stand—anything. 

_Who keeps their clothes in a library?_

He was just looking at the heavy black curtains. 

_Yes._

_Yes, that will make quite a nice set of robes, I think._

He pointed his wand at the top of the curtain—it was a high-ceilinged room and the curtains fell at least twenty feet to the carpet. He narrowed his eyes. “ _Diffindo_ ,” he directed the spell at the fabric just underneath the bunching where it was attached to the curtain rod. 

_It’s working._

_Yes!_

One corner of the curtain folded over, and then the fold grew as he severed the fabric. About halfway through, the weight of the falling fabric actually caused the tear to start ripping on its own, hastening the process. Finally the entire thing was only hanging on by a thread, and when that broke, all twenty feet of curtain came tumbling to the carpet in a cloud of dust. He covered his face with his hands and turned away, coughing, as he was enveloped. 

_I thought this place was brand new._

_Isn’t anyone dusting in here?_

He grabbed one end of the curtain and spread the fabric out. 

_Now… how to do this?_

He had quite frankly never considered transfiguring clothing. 

_Erm…_

He pulled a large flap of curtain over so that there was a double thickness of fabric lying flat on the floor. 

_That’s the front and the back…_

“ _Diffindo_ ,” he said and starting cutting a line, then a sort of long bit for a sleeve, then a straight bit, another sleeve, and down again at right angles. 

_Hrm._

_That actually doesn’t look_ too _bad._

He used the first gluing charm that came into his head on the edges, but they didn’t stick. The second worked and he applied it all along the edges of the fabric, leaving a hole for his head. He picked it up. 

_That is not bad at all._

He slipped it over his head. It fit a lot better than he had expected. 

_Right._

_Maybe I should make a hood._

_Or pockets._

_You need to go out there._

_You can’t just stay in here making clothes all night._

He rolled up the rest of the fabric and stuffed it behind one of the cushions of the nearest sofa. He doubted anyone was going to be paying much attention to the curtains tonight. 

_I wonder how Potter is doing._

_I wonder_ what _he’s doing._

At that point he heard a sound. It was the unmistakable swoosh-roar of spellfire. Instinctively he ducked behind the sofa, even though it sounded quite far away. 

_What was that?_

_Potter?_

Had Potter gotten into skirmish with Servants—while disguised as _him_? He felt sick to his stomach. Potter could do absolutely anything. 

_Oh, Hecate._

He bit his thumb and tried to keep back the intense feeling of shame that was trying to flood him. 

_If anything happens it will be all your fault._

_It is all your fault._

He didn’t hear any more spellfire. There was nothing for it. He stood up, approached the nearest book-lined wall and started examining it. He poked his wand into the back of the shelf and started tapping, listening carefully.

_Come on._

The volumes on the shelves were brand new, untouched, very handsome books with gold-stamped lettering on the spines, bound in leather. 

_They have practically have that new book smell._

There were volumes of Croatian poetry, a multi-volume work of Slavic history, an encyclopaedia. They were the sorts of books that people ordered to fill a library if they didn’t have thousands of volumes they had painstakingly collected over a lifetime. He was actually surprised there weren’t more cardboard books—

_Ah._

_Here we are._

The back of this shelf made a hollow sound when he tapped it. He tapped all along the length of the shelf. 

_Yep._

He started pushing against the outer edges of the shelf where it met the others around it. The walls were covered in shelving, but every three feet or so was divided into narrower individual shelves. 

_Got it._

The entire thing popped out like a door, and a rush of cold wind from behind told him that his assumption had been correct. 

_Servants’ passage._

_I knew they didn’t have House Elves._

He stepped through without hesitation and let the door close behind him. 

_Potter._

He wanted to find Potter.

_Why did Potter step toward me when I was doing up his buttons?_

It was nothing. Potter just wanted him to finish faster. That was all. 

_I still can’t believe Potter was willing to Polyjuice into me…_

_I suppose he Polyjuiced into Greg in second year, though._

_So he doesn’t have a problem looking like people he doesn’t like._

Except… sometimes he just found himself asking why he and Potter _weren’t_ friends. 

_If Potter would just let down his guard…_

He was sure that things could be different. 

He remembered Granger’s words. 

_Harry isn’t the most in touch with his emotions person._

_Anything other than anger is rather threatening to him_

_I’m doing everything I can to make him trust me._

_When will it be enough?_

He wanted to see Potter again so badly he could almost taste it. 

_I don’t want to give up on Potter._

_I don’t want to give up on…_

Give up on what? There was nothing to give up on. Potter just was not interested in him. That was all there was to it. Clearly, somewhere two years down the line, an older version of Potter would become— _briefly—_ interested in him but would quickly decide that no, it ‘wouldn’t be right’ and that was the end of that. 

_I need to get over what happened that day._

_I need to get over that time when Potter came and found me in the safe house…_

_And kissed me and told me that he loved me…_

_I need to get over that time when I went into the future like a berk,_

_Hecate, that was a stupid thing to do…_

_And I threw myself at Potter and he told me… quite firmly…_

_No._

He stood there in the servant’s passage, making his mind up. 

_From this moment on I am no longer in love with Harry Potter._

_I will do my best to protect his life, tonight._

_I hope this will be over tonight._

_And then I will part from him._

He remembered that vision he’d had—it seemed like an eternity ago—when he’d gone to Potter after the Battle. He’d imagined a hot summer’s day in the future—nineteen years, probably—and he’d imagined himself sitting in a Muggle cafe, drinking coffee and watching the witches and wizards arrive and enter King’s Cross station to put their children on the Hogwarts Express. And he’d imagined Potter seeing him, recognising him and walking toward him. 

He’d thought of Potter seeing him after all those years and being struck with the realisation that he _did_ love him after all. That was why Potter walked toward him. But now… 

_I feel as if I’ve aged a hundred years._

That fantasy seemed so childish. So immature. That wasn’t how life worked. A person didn’t just suddenly, out of the blue, decide to have a relationship with another person. You had to get to know them. You had to… accept that they didn’t want you, if that was the case. 

Now he could see the same image in his mind, but this time Potter spotted him and approached in friendship. Just to say hello. Ask after him and Lynx and Mum. Potter liked him, but more importantly, Potter respected him. 

He breathed out slowly. 

_I am no longer in love with Harry Potter._

_I will no longer think about him returning my feelings._

_I will not think about being with him in the future._

_I think of him as a— as a… peer._

_I can’t exactly call him a friend._

_But maybe one day if I play my cards right and atone for what I’ve done…_

_he will respect me._

_And I will no longer fantasise about him, full stop._

His fantasies about Potter felt so real and were so intense and beautiful compared to real life. When he thought about it, he wasn’t sure what had been keeping him going for all these months if it wasn’t thinking about Potter. Just slipping into a daydream about Potter could lift his mood any time. And it had done, even when he had been trying to deny his feelings for Potter, over the past two years. 

_I started to think about his hands just…touching mine._

_That was all._

_Or reaching out to trap a stray eyelash and blowing it away._

His thoughts had gradually been infiltrated by tenderness. It was all too easy to let violent thoughts inhabit his mind. If the Potter from the safe house had shown up two years ago, he would have punched him in the face. The same went for sex. Of course, sex was always present in some shape or form. But to go beyond that… it had been painful at times, because it was easier to be hard, or pretend to be hard, and it was all to easy to think of sex as being separate from emotion. Just surrendering to gentleness had been a struggle in his own mind. 

_But I did… and then I wanted it more than anything._

That was why Future Potter had devastated him so much. Because he craved that gentleness.  

_That Potter I met in the future…_

_he’s quite a different person from the one I know._

_The same, yes, but different._

So maybe there was hope for he and Potter to respect each other. Maybe that was why Future Potter had stopped himself. 

_He did want to._

_I think he really did want me._

Future Potter had realised something that he hadn’t been capable of understanding yet. That sometimes there were more important than one person’s desire for another. 

_Future Potter was wiser than I knew._

If he was honest, when he finished reading the Romance of Pet and Nara he had still thought that his mother was kind of a heartless cow. 

_But I think… she made a similar choice._

_She wanted to be with Petunia Evans._

_But she had to make a decision, and…_

_She had to stop._

For the first time in his life, he thought that he might become more like his mother than his father. He had always admired Father, with his fun-loving and flamboyant ways. Mum was practically ascetic by comparison. Boring, strict, self-denying. He had never wanted to be anything like her. 

_Mum… gave up the love of her life._

And it was worse for Mum—far, far worse, because Petunia Evans loved Mum back and wanted them to be together forever. 

He remembered what Sir had said about Mum. That she was the strongest person he knew. 

_Now I know why he thought that…_

Maybe with time he could become more like her, and more like Future Potter. Someone who was able to make the right decision, even if it was hard. Someone who was able to deny themselves for a higher reason. 

_Someone like Sir._

Sir had done all those things and more. If he could be like that, he knew Sir would be proud of him. Finally, Sir would be proud. 

_I will make you proud, Sir._

_I promise._

The servant’s passage was narrow, wide enough to allow one adult to walk along it with a little space on either side for the shoulders. It was plain, unadorned, whitewashed. There were no directions or signs posted. 

_I’ll just see what is happening upstairs._

He thought that Potter would probably go straight to Ron Weasley to make sure he was alright. He walked briskly forward and found that the passage soon forked off in opposite directions. This must run parallel to the hallway they had come down which extended off from the vestibule. 

_Wait._

_I need to get to the stairs._

_That’s on the_ other side _of the hallway._

He thought for a moment. Either there was some kind of subterranean passage underneath the hallway, or servants were expected to slip across swiftly, trying to remain unnoticed, between two doors across the upstairs hallway. 

_I can’t see anything here._

He walked a little further, allowing his fingers to trail along the walls, looking for tell-tale grooves or cracks. 

_There._

_Is that a door?_

There was no handle. He pressed his hands flat against the wood as he had done in the library, and the wall opened quietly. He allowed it to open half an inch or so and put his ear to the gap, listening. It sounded empty. If he was correct, this door should open onto the hallway he had brought Potter down earlier. He allowed the door to open a little wider so he could just look out. 

_Yeah._

_It’s that hallway._

The difficulty now was that he didn’t know the location of the door on the opposite side. That must lead to a back staircase to match the grand central one in the vestibule. Once he got onto that side, he would be able to get upstairs and find Potter. 

_Just go._

_Hold on. I’m just checking._

If anyone saw him now and realised there were two Draco Malfoys traipsing around this house there was going to be trouble.

_I want to stay on the right side of whatever it is that Dolohov is planning._

_That’s an understatement._

There was still no-one here. He strained his ears, but couldn’t hear anything. He assumed the Servants were still enjoying their barbecue. 

_I heard wizards duelling, though._

Did Potter let Ron Weasley out? Maybe that was the sound of him being re-captured. 

_He’s about as capable as a Snitch with the wings pulled off._

What Potter saw in him he’d never understood. Just the sight of Ron Weasley’s long nose, overbite and ever so slightly too weak chin were enough to make him swear off trying to look at Potter in lessons for a week. 

_He’s just such a… lump._

Every time he heard Ron Weasley talking, the only conclusion he could draw was that the boy’s mother had accidentally swapped his brains for breakfast porridge and no-one had noticed.

_Talking, or walking, or flying, or just existing._

_Ugh._

_I can’t abide him._

It had taken the Servants about two minutes to subdue Ron Weasley. He had managed to tip the basin of the centaur fountain off its foundation, resulting in the almighty crack he had heard upstairs earlier, flooding the place with water. Then he took up a defensive position behind the hunk of black marble, but he hadn’t stood a chance against a swarm of fully grown Servants. The only reason it had taken that long was that everyone had placed their wands in that vase by the door and when Potter and Ron Weasley blasted the door down, there was a rush to get to the wands, the vase had fallen and smashed on the floor and a scrum formed of Servants scrabbling for wands. 

_They couldn’t organise a sweep-up in a broomstick factory._

Actually… that had been a monumentally stupid thing to do, having all the Servants leave their wands in one place like that. 

_Well…_

He knew that surrendering one’s wand was a custom in this part of the world for important events such as weddings. 

_It shows the peaceful nature of the gathering._

He supposed Dolohov had been very confident about the protections on this house and had been sure that no-one would be able to attack it. 

_So how were Potter and Ron Weasley able to get in with just a blasting curse?_

If the house was properly protected, that shouldn’t be possible. It _should_ take a lot more than just two teenagers who hadn’t even passed their N.E.W.T.s to get through that door. The thing was, after Ron Weasley had been apprehended, Yaxley had made everyone put their wands back in the vase and then he had herded them all back into the games room and out onto the terrace. He had pretended he didn’t have his wand on him as he stood there, blocking Potter from view. There had still been a couple of wands lying on the floor. Yaxley must have assumed one of them was his.

_Silly Potter._

He had been hiding behind an oversized Ming-style vase with a very poor Disillusionment charm on him. He had practically died laughing when he saw him standing there, hoping no-one saw him. 

_Where’s Potter’s Invisibility cloak?_

_Why didn’t he use that?_

He peered out of the door again. The vestibule was nearby. Just a short walk.

_Are those wands still there?_

He cast a silencing charm on himself to hide the sound of his footsteps, slipped out, closed the wall behind him, and broke into a run. 

_There’s no-one around._

_Quick._

_Be quick._

The vestibule was empty, echoing, and looked undisturbed apart from the broken water feature which now lay in several parts. When it fell it had actually cracked the marble floor with its weight, which explained the loud sound. Several long cracks emanated from underneath where the male centaur lay, hooves kicking the air. 

_The wands are right there._

He couldn’t believe it. He grabbed the entire vase of wands with two hands, clutched it to his chest—it was a heavy crystal glass vase—and spun around, frantically looking for another service door that would let him get out of sight. 

_There won’t be one here._

_It’s too public._

He scurried back to the hallway and hid behind the bulwark of the staircase. 

 _There_ has _to be one here._

He pushed against the wall with his shoulder since his hands were full, working his way along. 

“Took his head clean off,” a voice laughed darkly. “How d’you like that, eh, matey?” 

_That’s Nott._

_Oh Hecate._

“Not so fine now, are you?” Nott chuckled. 

_What is he talking about?_

_Has someone been… beheaded?_

He was still frantically pushing his shoulder into the wall, waiting for the spring-back that would let him know he’d found service door, working his way down. 

_Is he coming this way?_

_Oh, Hecate, he is._

He could hear Nott’s footsteps coming toward him, Nott muttering, “How d’you like being on the ground, Lord High and Mighty?” 

_Is he talking about Potter?_

His heart was racing as Nott got closer and closer. 

“Draco Malfoy?” 

_Oh._

Fuck. 

_I’m done for._

_I’m done._

_That’s it._

_Pack up the circus. We can all go home._

He span around, holding the vase of wands behind him. “Nott,” he nodded through gritted teeth. 

“Khazi?” Nott asked. 

He jerked his head back in the direction Nott had come from. “Back that way,” he lied. “There’s one outside by the pool.” His arms were trembling from holding the heavy vase behind his back. 

“Like that Kazimir, do you, son?” Nott asked with a leer. 

“Er—” He felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck. “I just met him,” he said. 

One corner of Nott’s mouth pulled upward in a creepy smile. “Come on, show us again how you buggered that Harry Potter.” 

His arms were screaming. “Ah,” he stuttered. “I—er…” 

“Gave him a proper rogering, didn’t ya? The Dark Lord, may his spirit rest, he nearly pissed himself laughing,” Nott laughed. “You were going for ages, weren’t ya? He wouldn’t let you stop.” Nott formed his hands into fists and thrust his pelvis backward and forward several times. “That gave us a proper laugh.” Nott had a tooth missing, and it just looked awful when he gurned like that. “Good lad,” he raised his hand in farewell as he turned away and shuffled off. 

_I’m going to be sick._

He sank to the floor, letting the vase of wands trail down the wall and come to rest on the ground. 

“Ooh- _errr_ ,” Nott catcalled, out of sight now. “His nibs has fallen very far indeed."

_He’s talking about the statue._

_The centaur statue._

_Because its head came off._

He stood up, shaking slightly, and pushed the wall. It sprang open. 

_Fucking perfect._

_Why couldn’t you do that before?_

He went through and closed the door behind him. He let out a sigh of relief and plunked the vase of wands down on the ground. 

_Gave him a proper rogering, didn’t ya?_

_The Dark Lord, may his spirit rest, he nearly pissed himself laughing_

He leaned against the wall, trying to shake off the sick feeling from what Nott had said. 

_I just stole the wand of every Servant in this place._

He stared at the vase full of wands. 

_Now they’re completely helpless._

_They deserve it. They deserve whatever’s coming to them._

_Every last one._


	89. Malfoy's Trust

**Harry**

He closed the door behind him. Kazimir Dolohov was waiting outside and he performed the complicated locking charm again, then led him back to the room he had been in before, the one with all the romantic trappings of wine and flowers. Dolohov closed the door.   
****

“And?” Dolohov looked at him intently.

He crossed Malfoy’s arms. “Let them go,” Malfoy’s voice said. “They’re just a bunch of harmless kids.” 

Dolohov looked surprised. “This is your advice?” 

He nodded. “They’re chasing glory. They want to be the ones to hand the—” he was about to say _Death Eaters_ , but then he remembered that Malfoy often called them something else. _Servants_. “The Servants over to the Ministry of Magic.”

Dolohov narrowed his eyes. “How do they propose to do this? We are in Dalmatia. The British authorities are in, you know, Britain.”

_Oh, er…_

He hadn’t thought of that. He shrugged. “They want to take everyone prisoner.” Ginny had, after all, already succeeded in capturing that one Death Eater. 

“Yes, but what then?” Dolohov asked. “If they take prisoners, how will they transport them?” 

_Er…_

_A Portkey or something?_

“They have a Portkey,” he said finally. 

“They _have_ a Port?” Dolohov asked, sounding shocked. Dolohov spoke very good English—better than Viktor Krum, for example. 

_I wonder where he learned that._

He was certain Kazimir Dolohov had not attended Hogwarts. In that case he would have lost his accent already. And Dolohov wasn’t that much older than him. He was sure he would remember him if he had. But if Dolohov Senior was a Death Eater, surely he lived in England? Why hadn’t his son attended Hogwarts? 

“A Port?” He said. Lucius Malfoy had said that the Death Eaters and Dumbledore’s Army came to Croatia using the same Portkey, created by a Ministry of Magic employee selling to the highest bidder. “Yeah, they have a Portkey. They’re planning to arrest a bunch of Dea— _Servants—_ and then send them back to England.” 

Dolohov frowned. 

“But,” he said. “You know. They’re just a bunch of kids. Can you imagine those idiots managing to capture, er,” he wracked his brain, trying to figure out what Malfoy would say in this situation. “Capture the brave and noble Servants of the Dark Lord?” 

Dolohov snorted. “Ridiculous,” he agreed. “But they do not have a Portkey. Your father closed the Port behind him when he came here. And _my_ father made sure that every Portsmith in fifty miles’ radius took a nice summer holiday to Shqipëria.” 

 _Er…._ what _?_

Dolohov chuckled. “So you see. There is nowhere for them to go. And they will never succeed to send one of your Servants back to England.” 

“What’s Shq—thing?” He asked dumbly, not able to think of anything else to say. 

“Albania, in English,” Dolohov said. “So, as you say, they are young people … not much threat to the Servants. Your advice to my father is, to let them go?” 

_Yeah._

_I want them out of here._

“Why did your father send the Portsmiths away?” He asked without thinking. 

Dolohov stared at him. “Send them away?” He repeated. “Because he foresaw this would happen. The Light would come after Dark Servants. But the Servants know my father now will do best for them. No years in prison again.” 

_Jesus…_

He realised he was staring at Kazimir Dolohov in shock. He had never really thought about how the Death Eaters might try to fight back against being captured. He had never thought one of them might be clever enough to actually _plan_ for a future without Voldemort. 

_Maybe Dolohov believed the prophecy… maybe he was betting on Riddle to die._

“I will tell my father,” Dolohov said, and then made eye contact with him. “Thank you, Draco.” 

_Er…_

Kazimir Dolohov was looking at Malfoy quite intently. 

_It’s a courtship of marriage._

He found himself looking at Dolohov’s green eyes and dark hair and felt a prickle of dislike. 

“Shall we sit down?” Kazimir said. 

_No._

_I’d rather not._

But he didn’t think it was a good idea to say no. If Kazimir Dolohov was trying to impress Malfoy, he should be able to get a lot of information out of him. He could find out a lot about what was going on. 

_I’m not interested._

_So don’t go giving him the wrong impression._

He followed Dolohov back to the table and chairs where the wine had been set out, and sat down, but suddenly he didn’t want to be here at all. He looked down at Malfoy’s hands. The Amortentia was working. Rushing through his veins. He could feel it working. 

_I had feelings for you._

_I—still have them._

“Would you care for—” Dolohov began, gesturing to the bottle. “This is like our Butterbeer. It is home made with flowers which grow in the mountains. Very refreshing.”

He felt antsy, he couldn’t concentrate. He started to jiggle Malfoy’s leg nervously. Not something Malfoy would ever do. He was far too elegant for that. 

_Where is he?_

_What is he doing?_

“Why do you want to marry M—er, me?” He asked suddenly. 

_Might as well._

Dolohov was clearly taken aback. He looked at him in surprise for a moment, then muttered. “The traditional courtship does not please you?” He was red in the face. 

_Keep him sweet._

_He could be useful._

He was shocked to realise that he really _was_ thinking like a Slytherin now. In fact, he was being downright devious. He couldn’t think of any other way to handle this situation, though. He really did need to find out what Dolohov Senior was up to. If he was going to declare himself the new Dark Lord and lead the Death Eaters in a new attack on England. 

_Maybe it’s worse than that._

_Maybe he’s not the new Voldemort, but the new Grindelwald._

Voldemort’s war in Britain had been terrible, but it was contained. From what he’d understood about Grindelwald, he’d unleashed a war which engulfed all of continental Europe. 

_Does Dolohov want to spread blood supremacy across Europe?_

The thought sent a thrill of horror up his spine. 

_Play nice with Dolohov Junior._

_Make him think Malfoy_ is _considering him as marriage material._

“I’m a modern wizard,” he said, trying to shrug Malfoy’s shoulders in a lazy, arrogant Malfoy way. 

Dolohov grinned suddenly, leaned forward and said, in an undertone, “Me too.” 

The way Dolohov was looking at him was unsettling. The way Dolohov was looking at Malfoy was enraging. He gritted his teeth. 

_Back off._

_Back off of Malfoy._

_He’s not interested in you._

_So just leave off, why don’t you?_

Dolohov’s grin faded when he saw that Malfoy hadn’t smiled back at him. He looked down, then said, “I was not aware that man was your father. It was simply very… very bad luck.” Dolohov looked at him again. “Please,” he said, “ _please_ do not tell my father. I do not want to disappoint him…”

_Er…_

“Alright,” he said in an indifferent tone. “I won’t tell him.” 

Dolohov bowed his head. “Am I… forgiven, then?” 

He frowned. 

_What d’you mean?_

“Please,” Dolohov said. “Tell me what I must do.” 

“No, no,” he said, irritated. “You’re forgiven.”  

The tone of Malfoy’s voice, that slightly imperious drawl, always hinting dismissiveness—it made him grin inwardly to hear it. To hear Malfoy use it against this idiot.

Dolohov continued, “I cannot believe your father would allow the courtship to proceed if you were so—ah, if you were so hesitant. Did he not show you my picture…?”

_Did they spring this on Malfoy?_

_Did they not tell him?_

_Is Malfoy going to be married off with no say in it whatsoever…?_

“No,” he replied, Malfoy’s voice sounding more irritated than ever. “My father didn’t tell me. This came as a complete surprise.” 

Dolohov’s eyes widened in horror. He looked absolutely boggled. “Surprise?” He breathed. He frowned, shaking his head. “What can be the meaning of this…” He stood up, walked away a few steps, then came back. 

_Okay…_

Dolohov didn’t look too happy. Dolohov walked swiftly back and knelt down on the floor in front of him. “Is the alliance dissolved?” He said, staring at him intently. “Am I correct?”

_Oh…shit_

He had _definitely_ said something wrong. 

“Your father knew,” Dolohov said, breathing quickly. “He knew who I was, that night in the bar. He had seen my picture. My father had portraits specially commissioned.” Dolohov seemed to be trembling. 

Lucius Malfoy had knowingly slept with someone he was trying to marry his son to? 

_This just gets more twisted by the minute._

He shook his head. He had no idea what to say that would improve the situation and get Dolohov back into the talkative mood he had been in before. “I have no idea what my father is doing,” he said, which was not only true, but the only thing he could think of saying at the moment. 

Dolohov bowed his head, then got up and flopped down on the chair opposite him. “It is…infuriating,” Dolohov pronounced the word carefully. “My father does not tell me either. Only—” Dolohov leaned forward. “Only the minimum,” he held up his thumb and forefinger a short distance apart. “Only as little as he can tell me.” He sat back, held his hands to his head and gave a guff of frustration. “I was told, you will court the scion of Malfoy. This is a good match. Good for our families. He looks good. You will like him.” 

“Oh,” he said. 

“So you—” Dolohov said. He lowered his voice. “Did your father tell you to reject my offer?” 

_I have no idea_

He shook his head and shrugged. 

Dolohov ran his hand through his hair, looking incredibly frustrated. Then he said, slowly, “In my opinion, we could be compatible. Certainly on my side…” he trailed off. He was red again. 

_What, he thinks Malfoy is fit?_

Malfoy and Dolohov would make an attractive couple. He could see that. 

_That’s the Amortentia talking._

_You would never have thought like that about two blokes._

He ignored the voice in his head. “You _want_ an arranged marriage?” He said, somewhat incredulously. 

Dolohov glanced at him. “I don’t think the alliance is dissolved,” he said. “Our fathers are downstairs, enjoying feast. So there must be another reason.” 

“Reason?” He said, feeling befuddled. 

“Your father…” Dolohov said slowly. “He is a noble man.”

_Noble?_

_Lucius Malfoy, noble?_

_Noble my arse._

“He lay with me,” Dolohov said. “So he takes the blame for dissolving our match. Clearly, it cannot go ahead once this has happened. My father would never hear of it if he knew. And only something so—” Dolohov swallowed. “Only such a serious, ah, what can I say?” 

“Indiscretion?” He suggested, and nearly clapped Malfoy’s hand over Malfoy’s mouth. 

_Where did that come from?_

_I don’t use words like that._

It was Malfoy. It was Malfoy working his way into every corner of his being. 

“Yes, thank you,” Dolohov said. “ _Indiscretion_. It has to be serious to break the agreement once it has been made. So your father found his way to do this without dishonouring you.” 

_Oh…_

_er…_

“Is there someone?” Dolohov asked, glancing at him. 

_I had feelings for you._

_I still—have them._

“Er…” he wasn’t really sure what to say. It would be the best way to get Dolohov off his back—

_Not literally. Hehe._

_No, not literally._

_Of course not literally!_

_What are you talking about? Shut up._

It would be the best way to get Dolohov off his back, but… 

Dolohov smiled faintly. “Harry Potter?” 

“Who told you that?” He said sharply. Too sharply. Too loudly. 

Dolohov held up his hands. “I apologise. I should not repeat rumour.” 

“What rumour?” He hissed, leaning forward and glaring at Dolohov. “Tell me what you heard.” 

Dolohov looked pained. “It is just a rumour I heard. That there is relationship between you and Harry Potter.” He looked chagrined. “I apologise if I offend you.” 

_So everyone does think…_

He thought of Malfoy, sobbing in that toilet stall with Moaning Myrtle. 

_I fancy him. I fancy Harry Potter._

_He didn’t seem very happy about fancying me._

_Seems like it made him even more horrible than usual._

Maybe that was just the effect he had on people who liked him. Cho cried, Ginny turned into a bitch, and Malfoy joined the Death Eaters. 

_Great._

_Really great._

“What about you?” He asked. “Don’t you have…” Kazimir Dolohov _was,_ objectively, very attractive. He seemed like the kind of bloke who was never without a girlfriend on his arm. Or in his case, he supposed, a boyfriend. 

Kazimir Dolohov grinned self-consciously. “I want to live in England,” he said. “But I need a permit. Marriage is a good way to live there.” 

He was surprised. “Why do you like England so much? It’s quite nice here,” he pointed out. 

“Until my father told me about this match, I was living in Prague,” he said. “I moved there after Durmstrang. I had boyfriend, a nice apartment, a nice life. But… I left it for this chance to go to England.” 

“What’s so great about England?” He said. “I mean, _I_ like it, but I’m, you know, _English_.” 

Dolohov leaned forward. “I’m a goalkeeper,” he said. “I want to play for the Holyhead Harpies, but they will not give me a chance. In England, I could try again. Maybe easier to make the team if I am there.” 

He stared at Kazimir Dolohov. 

_Quidditch._

_This is all about quidditch._

He stood up. He had the feeling his hour as Malfoy was almost up and he needed to get out of here before he started transforming back. “I’m going to find the toilet,” he said. 

Dolohov pointed. “End of the hallway,” he said. 

*

He leaned on the sink and watched Malfoy’s face turn into his own. Malfoy’s silver eyes were consumed from the pupil out by a flush of deep green. Malfoy’s flawless skin darkened and the lightning scar returned on his forehead. Malfoy’s silver hair receded into his skull while turning black from the roots up, so that for a few moments it was half luminous white, half jet black. He shrank down to his normal height, unfortunately. 

_I must not tell lies._

The pearly white scar reappeared on his hand, his fingers lost their elegance and the nails became ragged and bitten. 

Then he was standing there, Harry Potter once more. 

_Where is Malfoy?_

_I need to find Malfoy._

He wanted Malfoy to go and continue the conversation with Dolohov. Most importantly, Malfoy needed to make sure that Dolohov let go of the prisoners, as he had suggested. 

_But…_

Now that he was himself again, how was he going to get around? If anyone caught sight of him, he was going to be thrown in that room with Dumbledore’s Army and he would be back to square one. 

There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Potter,” came a whispered voice. 

_Malfoy._

His heart was in his throat all of a sudden. He opened the door and Malfoy came in quickly and shut the door behind him. His hand was still on the doorknob when Malfoy reached down and firmly closed the door, and their hands brushed. He gasped and drew his hand back, then felt himself go crimson in embarrassment. 

_What was that?_

_What’s wrong with you?_

His mouth was dry and he felt about two sizes too large for his skin, so awkward he couldn’t stand up and he wasn’t sure what to do with his arms. 

“And?” Malfoy said. 

He raised his eyes to Malfoy’s, knowing it would make his heart jump, and it did. 

_Do you like me?_

He licked his lips involuntarily. Malfoy was still standing very close to him. He wanted to lean over and see what Malfoy smelled like. When Malfoy had done up his buttons he had caught mint, something like that. He wanted to bury his hands in Malfoy’s hair and—

“Potter,” Malfoy said. “What happened?” Malfoy sat down on the edge of the huge bathtub which took up half the room. It was shaped like a seashell, strangely enough. 

He stood there and crossed his arms tightly to try to feel less awkward. 

_Remember you haven’t bathed in days._

_Malfoy is probably disgusted._

_He’s probably regretting ever fancying you for one second._

“Kazimir Dolohov wants to marry you so he can play Quidditch in England. Your dad must have slept with him to get you out of the arranged marriage without dishonouring you. And I told him to let Dumbledore’s Army go. Oh, and there are no Portkeys and Dolohov sent all the Portsmiths away.” 

Malfoy stared at him as if he couldn’t believe what he had just said. Finally he said, “You spent this entire time talking to Kazimir Dolohov?” 

He felt nervous under Malfoy’s gaze. “Er, yeah, of course,” he stammered. “He told me to interrogate Dumbledore’s Army because you’re an informer.” 

Malfoy’s eyebrows flew up. “And?” 

He dropped his gaze. “They…” He felt completely tongue-tied. He wanted to make something up to cover up the fact that the DA had basically told him to bugger off, but he couldn’t think of anything. Usually he would just try to be nasty to Malfoy to deflect the question, but he couldn’t find any venom to spit. 

_You could tell him he’s—_

_No._

_Don’t._

“I’ve just been listening to their conversation,” Malfoy said, and looked at him. “Then I thought your hour must be almost over, so I came to look for you.” 

He felt weak in the knees. He looked back at Malfoy for as long as he could stand it, which was not very long. He felt as if his head must look like a tomato from all the blushing. “Really?” He said distractedly. 

Malfoy looked annoyed. “Yes,” he said. “Aren’t you even going to ask me how I did it?” 

“Er…” he cast about for somewhere to sit that was not next to Malfoy. 

“I discovered the _service passages_ ,” Malfoy said triumphantly. 

He felt like someone had filled his head with Honeydukes Fudge. He couldn’t think. He was trying to look at anything but Malfoy. 

_This is unbearable._

“Potter?” Malfoy said. 

He glanced at Malfoy. 

“What is it?” Malfoy asked. “Is there something wrong?” 

He sat down on the edge of the bath next to Malfoy. He shook his head. 

_Malfoy doesn’t like Kazimir Dolohov._

_He likes me._

Malfoy didn’t just like him. Malfoy _really_ liked him. Malfoy had offered him the Polyjuice. 

_Malfoy trusts me._

He sat there, stunned. 

_He trusts me._

It was… it was so obvious. Malfoy trusted _him_. 

_Why does he…_

Malfoy had treated him… differently from before. He hadn’t even noticed it because he’d been so angry. He realised that for the first time since—since he could remember, he wasn’t angry. 

“Potter?” Malfoy said. 

He turned to look at Malfoy. His hair had come out of the combed style he’d slicked it back into and was falling into his eyes. 

Malfoy was looking back at him. 

He blinked slowly, but his heart was pounding.  

_Kiss me._

Malfoy frowned, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Did someone do a _Confundus_ on you?” Malfoy waved his hand in front of his face. 

He grabbed Malfoy’s wrist, Malfoy tried to grab it back, he wouldn’t let him, and Malfoy pushed back. He braced his arm. Malfoy saw the light in his eyes, betraying the set of his jaw and he sort of half-laughed and leaned forward and pushed down, trying to break his grip. He pushed back with all his strength and forced Malfoy’s arm back. Malfoy’s eyes were locked onto his. The blood was rushing through his veins and his heart was beating so hard he thought Malfoy could surely hear it. Malfoy was breathing hard as he seemed to find new strength and then he was straining to keep Malfoy’s wrist in check. He was being leaned back and leaned back. His other arm came out to brace against and he pushed his arm back against Malfoy’s wrist as hard as he could. He could feel the sweat start to trickle down his temple. Malfoy wasn’t going to win. He felt as if he were going to get lost in Malfoy’s eyes. He couldn’t stop looking at them, and Malfoy never looked away from him. He propped himself up against his left arm and with a new burst of strength, pushed Malfoy back—

_Argh!_

An agonising pain shot through his left lower arm and he let go of Malfoy’s wrist in an instant and grabbed the arm to his chest. 

_Oh, Christ that hurts._

Malfoy, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and alight with a silver glow, gasped, “Your arm.” 

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, bit his lip. 

_It’s fine._

He straightened up, shook his arm out as if there was nothing wrong. This only caused another jolt of pain to shoot through it. “Argh, _fuck_ ,” he winced. 

Malfoy hadn’t said anything, he was just looking at him, waiting. 

He took several deep breaths. “It’s fine,” he said through gritted teeth, forcing himself to ignore the deep, throbbing pain. “What were you saying—” He caught his breath as another throb of pain came to a head, “before?” 

Malfoy pursed his lips as if he was annoyed with him for having a broken arm. 

“Hey,” he said. “I’m not the one who crashed that car and gave me a broken arm.” 

Malfoy looked shocked, and he went pale and silent as if he was hurt, and turned away slightly. 

_No…_

_Hang on…_

_That was supposed to be a joke._

“I mean, it’s not like you were a Pureblood driving a fancy sports car,” he said, smiling. “That would be _really_ odd. Do the other Death Eaters join you for the Sunday car parades? Or do they just pester you to give them rides?” 

Malfoy looked at him with a strange look on his face, half smile, half frown. “Are you making a joke?” 

He grinned. “I think so.” 

Malfoy laughed softly and ran a hand through his hair. “You totalled my car, Potter,” Malfoy shot him an evil look. “That is a crime which can only be repaid through death.” 

He laughed like an evil overlord. “I am the master of death. Death means nothing to me. Death is like going to bed at night.” 

But Malfoy didn’t laugh at this. He gestured to his arm. “You should splint it.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I can do it for you,” Malfoy said, not looking at him. “I know the basics.” 

“Okay,” he shrugged. 

“We both need to change, then,” Malfoy said, and pulled his robe over his head. 


	90. Vase Of Wands

**Draco**

His heart was still racing, but it didn’t take away the guilty feeling in his stomach.   
****

_I shouldn’t have done that._

_What possessed me to start arm wrestling with Potter?_

_I forgot he had a dodgy arm._

“Hey,” Potter said. “I’m not the one who crashed that car and gave me a broken arm.” 

He felt his stomach plunge horribly. 

_I know I shouldn’t have gotten in that car with him in that state._

_It was bound to happen._

_I didn’t save his life. I was responsible for endangering it in the first place._

He couldn’t look at Potter. Somehow deciding to stop liking Potter was just making him feel worse about everything that had happened over the past few days, almost as if that had all been for nothing. And what he’d overheard Dumbledore’s Army saying about Potter didn’t make him feel any better. 

_I can’t do anything for him._

_Not that I ever could._

_But now I can’t even_ hope _that I could… make things better for him._

“I mean,” Potter said quickly. “It’s not like you were a Pureblood driving a fancy sports car. That would be _really_ odd. Do the other Death Eaters join you for the Sunday car parades? Or do they just pester you to give them rides?” 

_What?_

He was surprised to find that Potter was smiling at him. 

_I really think he’s been Confunded or something._

“Are you making a joke?” 

Potter grinned. “I think so.” Potter’s eyes seemed to be looking at him—

_Openly._

He couldn’t see any of that anger and hair-trigger defensiveness that he usually saw when he looked into Potter’s eyes. 

“You totalled my car, Potter,” he shot Potter an evil look. “That is a crime which can only be repaid through death.” 

_That was a bad choice of words._

_Not death._

_I should have said something else._

Potter gave a slow, theatrical evil laugh. “I am the master of death. Death means nothing to me. Death is like going to bed at night.” 

_That’s not funny._

He pointed to Potter’s arm. “You should splint it.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I can do it for you,” he muttered, even though he had promised himself to stop trying to help Potter, because there was no point. Potter saw everything as an attack. “I know the basics.” Sir had always insisted that basic Healing was an essential part of a any undercover agent’s toolkit of skills.

“Okay,” Potter shrugged. 

_This is going to come back to bite me._

_But he’s just going to injure his arm even more._

“We both need to change, then,” he said, taking off his curtain robes  and spreading them over his lap. “Give me back my robes.” 

Potter started undoing the buttons. He noticed Potter was clenching his jaw. 

_It must hurt to move his fingers._

But Potter kept going, doggedly unbuttoning each button. He winced in sympathy, but he didn’t say anything. Potter glanced at him, but he didn’t get defensive or say anything rude. 

_He’s acting so strange._

_This must be what it’s like to see Potter through the eyes of someone who doesn’t adore him._

He didn’t like Potter any more, and suddenly his behaviour seemed totally different. Almost friendly. 

_Could it be that?_

_Have I been seeing him as angry and bitter because…_

_I was angry and bitter that he didn’t like me back?_

He couldn’t deny that Potter seemed different. But could it all be down to his perception? 

_I don’t know._

_I… he seems docile somehow._

_He hasn’t tried to argue with me in the past five minutes._

_That’s an achievement._

Maybe all he needed to do to improve Potter’s opinion of him was to keep not liking him, because it seemed to be working so far. 

_Weird._

_That’s just… really odd._

He focused on the curtain robes. He held on to the hem with both hands and pulled. The heavy velvet resisted, then ripped with a gorgeous sound all the way up the front. 

“Trying to show a little more skin this time?” Potter muttered, eyeing the ripped fabric.

He chuckled. “I never have to _try_ , Potter. It just comes naturally.” He took hold of the hem again and managed to rip a long, straight strip which he laid on the side of the bath. He did it again, and then cast _Diffindo_ to cut out a large triangle from the entire back of the robes. He draped everything over the bath. 

_Now._

_I just need a splint._

_Preferably two pieces of wood the same length as Potter’s forearm._

He stood up. 

_I’m a genius._

“Potter, I need to get something,” he said. “Give me those robes.” 

Potter looked up at him. He had stopped undoing the buttons. “Dolohov is waiting for you,” he said. 

_For Hecate’s sake._

“Could you give me my robes back please?” He put his hands on his hips expectantly. 

“So take them,” Potter said, still looking at him. 

_What?_

He frowned. “Potter, we don’t have time for games. Give me the robes.” 

Potter didn’t react except for staring back at him insolently and shrugging. 

_What is he doing?_

“Potter,” he was getting impatient. “If you don’t take those robes off this instant, I’ll—”

“What?” Potter said. His eyes were very large. “What will you do?” 

He shook his head. He didn’t understand what Potter was trying to do. Start a fight? Was Potter angry about something he had done and was trying to hint at it? 

Potter leaned back on his good arm on the bathtub. “At Malfoy Manor you said you could do whatever you wanted to me and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”  His voice was low and strangely breathy. 

_What?_

Potter was still looking at him. “So why didn’t you?” 

He had the feeling his eyebrows had receded into his hair by now. “Why didn’t I do _what_?” 

_Potter’s trying to say I didn’t protect him properly._

_I didn’t take him to a Healer._

_Didn’t make sure that he didn’t hurt himself._

_Didn’t make sure that he didn’t hurt_ me. 

_The car crash was completely my fault._

Potter had _asked_ him… when they arrived in Dubrovnik, Potter had literally _told him_ he needed to visit St. Mungo’s for treatment. 

_And what did I do?_

He had given Potter back to Dumbledore’s Army. 

 _That’s what I was_ supposed _to do._

 _Granger_ told _me to do that._

Dumbledore’s Army were _supposed_ to take care of Potter. They were _supposed_ to be his friends.  

_But they don’t know how bad he is._

_They haven’t seen him._

_They haven’t seen the worst of it._

He had. He was the only one who had. 

_I’m the only one who knows how bad he has gotten._

He realised the feeling in his stomach. 

_Panic._

Potter was in a house full of enemies and Potter was as helpless as a baby puffskein. Potter was here because _he_ had let him get here. Because _he_ hadn’t done anything to get Potter off this insane quest which he seemed to be determined to kill himself to carry out. 

_Oh, Hecate._

He was trembling. He thought he might burst into tears, if it weren’t for the rage that was building within him and directed squarely inward, squarely at the centre of his own being. 

_This is how bad I am._

_This is how awful._

_Potter is going to get himself killed and it will be completely my fault._

This whole time he had been worrying about Father when really Father was disturbingly cool, calm and collected for someone who had just lost his other half a few days ago. Potter said he wanted revenge, but he didn’t act like it. Potter was just out of control, full stop. Father, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what he was doing. 

_Father has a plan._

_A plan he is going to enact_ tonight. 

_We need to get out of here._

_Now._

He sat down next to Potter and undid the buttons as quickly as he could. Then he started pulling the robes off his shoulders, briskly on his good arm, tugging the sleeve firmly to get Potter’s arm out. “Turn around,” he said, and started pulling the shoulder off Potter’s broken arm. He did it as carefully as he could, but he could feel Potter’s body growing tense and his breath hitching as he tried to get the sleeve off. “Straighten out your arm,” he said. Potter obeyed, wincing. He stood up, carefully took hold of the sleeve hems at Potter’s wrist and pulled, firmly but slowly, trying not to jar Potter’s arm. Potter’s face was salt white and he was clenching his jaw like he was going to break it as well. The sleeve came off. Potter stood up and slowly stepped out of the robes. 

He snatched them up, stepped into them himself and cursed the buttons. “Stay here,” he said. “No, wait—wait.” 

_I need to put Potter somewhere safe._

_Where he can’t get into any trouble._

He gestured to Potter. “Come on,” he said. 

Potter got up. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

He had almost forgotten the fabric he had cut out for the splint. And the mangled curtain-robes on the floor. He snatched them up, then chivvied Potter in front of him. Before he opened the door, he turned to Potter. “Look,” he said. “When you get out of here, just turn left. You’ll end up in a bedroom.”

Potter nodded solemnly. 

He opened the door and peeked out. The coast was clear. He stepped back. “Go,” he said. 

Potter disappeared. He checked the bathroom one last time in case he had forgotten something. 

_No._

_I think that’s everything._

Then he followed Potter into the door immediately next to the bathroom at right angles. It was dark inside. He had turned off the lamps on purpose to make it harder for an adversary to see what was going on inside. “Potter?” He said, slipping inside and locking the door behind him. “Over here,” he said, feeling his way to the concealed panel next to the door and popping it open. He lit a dim _Lumos_ on his wand and waited for Potter to go in. 

“What is it?” Potter asked. He was holding his arm against his body. 

“Hidden passages for servants to use. They don’t have any House Elves,” he explained. “Hurry up.” 

Potter went inside, and once he saw that Potter was safe inside, he unlocked the door to the hallway—there was no point in arousing suspicion—and followed Potter inside. He closed the door to the servants’ passage and then they were alone, inside, in the enclosed darkness of the narrow corridor. He brightened his Lumos and found Potter watching him, leaning against the wall. 

_See how different he is when you stop liking him?_

_He’s not hostile at all._

Potter must have sensed the change in his attitude and adjusted his behaviour accordingly. 

_Was I really that obvious?_

He cringed at the very thought of his behaviour broadcasting his feelings. 

_It must have been obvious to everyone for miles around in that case._

“This way,” he said, leading Potter down the passageway. There was a flash of light up ahead. 

“What was that?” Potter said, though not as sharply as he should have if he thought it was a threat. 

_You’re congratulating yourself on how Potter is behaving?_

_For your information, he’s behaving like someone with some serious ongoing issues._

It was true. He really shouldn’t be giving himself any credit. Quite the contrary. _He_ was responsible for Potter getting to this stage without treatment and it didn’t matter if Potter was angry at him or strangely open, and it didn’t matter what the _reason_ might be for that. It was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was getting Potter out of here safely and getting him proper treatment. 

He knelt by the vase full of wands and the light from his wand refracted through the crystal-cut glass, casting diamond reflections across the walls and ceiling. “Sit down,” he told Potter, who again, didn’t argue. 

_Maybe he’s in too much pain to argue._

He fished out a wand and held it up. “Give me your arm,” he said. Potter held out his arm, supported at the wrist by his good hand. He laid the wand against Potter’s forearm. It was a little too long. He put it back and drew out another.” 

“Are those wands?” Potter asked. 

“Yep,” he said, laying the second wand against Potter’s arm. It would do. He fished out another and compared the lengths. He needed a second one, the same length. He took out another. “Okay,” he said, “that’s fine. Now—” It was awkward trying to do this in a dark passageway barely wide enough to sit in, and with no-one to hold the splints in place while he bound the arm with the fabric. He cast a sticking charm on the wands to hold them in place. He couldn’t really see in this half-light, but Potter’s arm looked to have a lump rising on the top between his wrist and elbow. “Those wands will act as splints,” he explained. “They’ll hold your arm and support it. Now I’m going to wrap this fabric around to support it and stop you from moving it.” 

Potter seemed to be staring into space as he started wrapping the long strip of black velvet around his arm, starting just below the elbow and working his way up to the wrist, then around the thumb and palm of his hand. Once he had tucked in the end of that strip, he went back and repeated the process with a second strip. “Okay?” 

Potter nodded. 

He picked up the final piece of fabric, which he had cut into a triangle, folded it in half. “This is a sling,” he said. “You can’t be swinging that arm around any more.” 

“Okay,” Potter said. 

_Okay?_

_I wish I’d gotten that response on a million other occasions._

_When you fought my slightest suggestion tooth and nail._

“Hold your arm like this—no, like that, yeah—” it was a little complicated to do properly because the fabric had to be folded a particular way. He had to kneel over Potter, arranging his arm and the fabric and then pulling the ends of the fabric behind his neck. He ignored the fact that he was so close to Potter, arranging his limbs this way and that, and he ignored that several times he touched Potter’s t-shirt without meaning to—it was unavoidable, though the strove to keep his touch as light as possible. He tied the ends of the velvet firmly behind Potter’s neck. “There,” he said, and ignored the fact that he would like it if Potter just leaned back into him and let him put his arms around him. 

“Thanks,” Potter said. 

“I don’t have anything to give you for the pain,” he said. “Not here, anyway.” 

“It’s fine,” Potter said, standing up awkwardly. “It feels better like this.” 

He stood up as well. “Good,” he said. Potter looked at him. He ignored the way his heart quailed just to look into Potter’s eyes. 

“You never answered my question,” Potter said quietly. Potter’s eyes searched his face. 

He met Potter’s eyes again and he suddenly felt uncomfortable all of a sudden. 

_Why is he looking at me like that?_

“What did I do?” He said irritably. “Just tell me. You’re clearly annoyed about something.” 

“Annoyed?” Potter said. “Er—I—no, I’m not, I’m really not.” 

“Potter,” he said. “You’re _always_ annoyed at me about something. Just tell me so we can get on with what we need to do.” 

Potter frowned, didn’t respond, but then said, “No, forget I said anything, Malfoy,” in a miffed voice, and went very quiet. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me about these wands?” He said, pointing at the enormous vase of wands sitting on the floor. 

“Yes,” Potter said. “Malfoy, what’s up with the wands?”

“I stole them,” he said, feeling incredibly proud of himself. “See?” He stirred his hand around inside the vase, making the wands rattle and tinkle against the glass. 

“Whose are they?” 

“The Servants’,” he shrugged, and grinned. “So I don’t really care if Kazimir Dolohov is looking for me. He doesn’t have a wand on him. So what’s he going to do? What are _any_ of them going to do?” 

Potter actually looked sort of impressed. “How did you get the wand of every _single_ Death Eater?” 

“Oh, they were… all sitting in that vase in the entrance hall,” he said. He didn’t say, 

_They were completely unguarded as well_

_So it was a piece of piss_

“It’s a custom here,” he said quickly. “For important gatherings. Wands are left outside as a peaceful gesture.” 

Potter quirked his eyebrow. “That’s even more stupid than I imagined they would be.” 

“Potter,” he said. “That’s rather insensitive.” 

Potter frowned. “What d’you mean?” 

“It’s a _tradition_. You can’t just dismiss it as stupid.” 

“It is stupid,” Potter said. “They’re Death Eaters. If they don’t want to be captured, they should probably keep their wands on them.” 

“Well,” he said, feeling rather offended on behalf of Dalmatia. “You clearly have no interest in understanding other cultures.” 

Potter rolled his eyes. “Fine. While you’re appreciating Croatian culture, I’ll be capturing Death Eaters.” 

_Really._

_Alright._

_I’m ready to finally hear it._

_Harry Potter’s Big Plan._

He leaned forward. “How?” 

Potter leaned against the wall. “First off, get Dolohov Junior to release Dumbledore’s Army. I don’t want any more interference from them. Second, burn all of these wands in the fireplace in that bedroom we were just in. Third, pick off the Death Eaters one by one from behind these secret passages—did you notice there are peepholes everywhere?” Potter reached out and flipped the covering off a small hole which was, indeed, cut into the wall. 

He smirked at Potter. 

_Yes, I noticed the peepholes._

“Finally,” Potter said. “Secure all the entrances and exits to this house using some kind of, I don’t know, securing spell. And then,” he dusted his hands off, “owl to Shacklebolt that I have captured the remaining Death Eaters and wait for the Aurors to come and arrest them. I’ll be exonerated. Everyone will love me again and I dunno,” Potter said, a lazy smile creeping across his face. “I might just go back to my first love of Quidditch and try out for the Holyhead Harpies.” 

He crossed his arms and smirked at Potter. “Oh, very cute. Very neat. And _when_ did you come up with this plan, exactly?” 

Potter wrinkled his nose adorably. “As soon as I saw that vase full of wands…” he smirked right back at him. “I knew.” 

“Are you _admitting_ ,” he was leaning against the opposite wall, which was only about three feet away anyway. “That you have had absolutely _no_ plan whatsoever for the past, er,  _week_?” 

Potter gazed back at him innocently. “How was I supposed to come up with a plan without knowing all of these details? Like the fact that the Death Eaters have no wands?” 

He cracked up, and so did Potter. He felt a strange joy blossoming in his heart. This was what it would be like to really be friends with Potter—wouldn’t it? 

_Yes._

_Friends._

_You, know._

_Peers. Equals._

That was all. 

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go carry out your, er, little plan, then, eh?” He picked up all the wands in the vase, leaving the vase behind, and started walking back to the bedroom. He had memorised the number of steps to get there, which was important because there were no markings in these passages to show which room was which. He had chosen the bedroom he had because it was furthest from the room where Dumbledore’s Army were being kept, and the closest to the bathroom, which was where he assumed Potter would go to transform back into himself. 

“It’s forty-three steps,” he whispered to Potter, who was walking behind him. “To get to that bedroom.” 

“’Kay,” Potter replied. 

_Forty…_

_Forty-one…_

_Forty-two…_

_Forty-three…_

He stopped, pressed the wall and the door popped open. The bedroom was still dark as he had left it. He listened, then cast a wordless _Lumos_ and shone it into the room. “It’s fine,” he said, and immediately went and locked the door and cast _Muffliato_ over it. “Don’t—” he hissed as the lights in the room went up. “Turn them off!” He hissed. 

Potter obeyed. “Sorry,” he said and went to kneel in front of the fireplace. 

 _Did he just say_ sorry _?_

Potter was lighting a fire in the grate. After a few failed attempts, some twists of newspaper kept in the woodbox next to the fireplace caught light. Potter picked up a large sawn-off piece of tree trunk with his good hand and lobbed it in. The fire immediately extinguished itself. He burst out laughing. 

“Oi,” Potter muttered. “No lip from you.” 

He smirked. “You’re dying for a bit of lip from me.” 

Potter glanced at him. 

_Oh._

Potter went back to the fire, but he… 

_I’m crazy._

_I’m as mad as Aunt Bella._

As he had expected, he had finally gone too far with the daydreaming and now he was projecting onto Potter. It was just like that time in the living room when he could have sworn Potter was checking him out, but it was obviously just his exhausted, overworked, Potter-obsessed mind seeing and imagining things. 

 _Well, he_ did _check me out. Earlier._

_He did that horrible leering thing._

_Designed to make a person feel like a piece of meat._

Was Potter trying to show him that if he was going to look like a girl, he’d better be ready to be treated like one? Was that how Potter acted toward women? He had a hard time believing Potter had had the chance to much if any leering at half-clothed girls before. But his time around Ron Weasley couldn’t have helped. If there was ever a greasy customer… that queasy mixture of deep-seated insecurity and entitlement.

_Potter probably learned everything from him._

_It makes me sick to my stomach._

He didn’t want to think of Potter as being like that. Of course he didn’t. He also didn’t want to think of Potter as an obtuse, self-destructive victim, but he had to face reality at some point, or reality was going to face _him._

_With a dead Potter._

He watched Potter cast a flame over and over again at the large block of wood until finally one corner took light and started to burn. He looked at Potter’s messy black hair, his glasses reflecting the flame, his scuffed trainers. 

“It’s burning,” Potter said, and looked at him. “It’s burning!” He grinned like an idiot. 

He laughed. Potter was acting silly. 

“Give me,” Potter said, holding out his hand for a wand. 

He went over and knelt next to Potter, putting the pile of wands down on the ground between them. He picked one up at random and peered at it. “I think this is Yaxley’s,” he said, and handed it to Potter. 

Potter looked at it. “Fuck you, Yaxley,” he said, and chucked it on the fire. It promptly started to turn black. Potter turned to him with an expression of absolute glee, which he felt must be mirrored on his own face. 

He plucked another from the pile. “Er… oh, this is Mulciber!” He cackled and passed it to Potter. 

Potter chucked it in and it joined Yaxley’s, which was already making strange popping sounds. Potter looked at him and they both started to laugh. 

He picked up an entire handful and shoved the wands into the fire. Potter grabbed a handful as well and tossed them into the grate. There was just one left. He picked it up. “It’s Dolohov’s!” He crowed. “I’m telling you, I recognise this and it’s Dolohov’s!” He threw it in and watched land on top of the pile of higgledy-piggledy wands flaming like a game of pick-up sticks gone very wrong.

Potter whispered, “You cast _Muffliato_ , right?” 

He nodded, grinning. 

Potter leaned his head back and let out a whoop. “ _Fuck_ you, Death Eaters! _Fuck_ you, bleeding cowards. There are cells waiting in Azkaban for all of you and now you’ll _never_ escape,” Potter, breathing fast, grinning from ear to ear, turned to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Malfoy.” 

He was so taken aback he stopped laughing and just stared at Potter in shock. 

_Thank you?_

“I’ve been waiting a long time to do something like that,” Potter said, rather seriously now. “You can’t understand how small and powerless they made me feel.” 

“Yes I can,” he said. “I can. When they’re all around you and no-one can help you— and you don’t know if you’re going to die in a second, or a minute…” 

Potter was staring back at him with a completely new expression on his face. 

He stared back at Potter. After a few moments he felt his insides start to turn to warm jelly, which he tried to ignore. 

_Friends._

_We’re going to be friends._

Potter stared at him, and then Potter very slowly reached out a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. 

_What…_

He wasn’t breathing. He was transfixed by Potter’s eyes. He was pinned like a butterfly on a specimen board. 

Potter leaned toward him and with a small sigh, brushed his lips sweetly against his own. 


	91. Someone To Be Mine

**Harry**

“Thank you,” he said, and he suddenly felt he had to say it urgently. He really meant it, and he needed to say it _now_. “Thank you, Malfoy. I’ve been waiting a long time to do something like that.” His heart felt almost as painful as his arm as he said, “You can’t understand how small and powerless they made me feel.”   
****

Malfoy wasn’t laughing any more. The fire cast a warm glow which made his skin and hair look golden. He felt lost in Malfoy’s eyes, with their silver tone, their delicate shape, their long eyelashes.

“Yes I can,” Malfoy said. “I can. When they’re all around you and no-one can help you— and you don’t know if you’re going to die in a second, or a minute…”   
****

He blinked.

_No…_

_no…_  
****

All this time Malfoy had known how he felt. And he hadn’t even known it. There was a terrible feeling somewhere deep within him. Somewhere around his heart, or stomach, he wasn’t sure. It felt as tender and raw as if he had opened a clamshell to reveal the soft and helpless innards. It was unbearable. Malfoy’s eyes drew him in. Malfoy’s hair was falling across his right eye. He reached up and—he could see his own fingers trembling—tucked it behind Malfoy’s ear, which felt as delicate as a sea shell. Malfoy blinked, and he just couldn’t wait any longer. As if a magnetic force was drawing him forward, he sat up on his knees, propping himself up on his one good arm, leaned in to Malfoy. His heart surged into a frantic beat. As softly as a butterfly’s wingbeat, he touched his lips against Malfoy’s.

Malfoy’s intake of breath seemed to pull him closer. His lips were fully touching Malfoy’s for a split second. 

“Draco!” 

He sprang backward. There was a deafening pounding on the door and another shout of “Draco!” 

Malfoy sprang up. “Kazimir Dolohov,” he muttered. Malfoy looked down at him, then offered his hand to pull him up. 

He let Malfoy pull him off the ground. Now they were standing close together, and he met Malfoy’s eyes again. Malfoy looked at him and then put one hand on each of his shoulders. His heartbeat accelerated like a Firebolt bursting into flight. Malfoy leaned down and kissed him. Malfoy’s lips pressed against his own, and without thinking he parted his lips. Malfoy’s arms went around his neck as Malfoy’s tongue touched his teeth, then this own tongue. The blood was singing in his veins, powerful, alive, and yet he felt as if Malfoy’s tongue was touching that place inside him which was so tender and raw that he could barely stand for it to be touched at all. 

The hammering came again on the door. 

“Fuck,” Malfoy said, breaking away. “I haven’t even got these buttons done up.” Malfoy started frantically buttoning the buttons of his robes while the pounding continued. “I’ll just be a second!” He shouted. Malfoy looked at him and said in a completely different tone of voice, gentler, “You should do something with those wands. Hide the evidence.” 

Feeling dazed, he looked at the wands burning merrily in the fireplace. He didn’t want to try to Vanish or Transfigure them while they were burning. That didn’t seem like a good idea. His eyes fell on the wood box. 

_I’ll cover them up._

He pulled a bunch of the smallest pieces of wood out of the box, threw them on top of the wands, then put three large pieces on top of that. 

_There._

_They’re hidden now._

“That’s fine,” Malfoy muttered, taking hold of his upper arm. “Now—” he said, with his wand in his other hand. “I’ve just found you hiding in here and taken you prisoner, alright?” 

He nodded. Malfoy’s hand felt warm on his arm. He let Malfoy lead him toward the door. 

“Do you need help?” Kazimir Dolohov shouted from beyond the door. 

“No, Kazimir, it’s alright,” Malfoy called out, then whispered, “Go in front.” Malfoy got ready to open the door, holding his upper arm in one hand and his wand held against his chest in the other, as if to prevent him from trying any tricks. That meant that Malfoy was standing right behind him, warm, and he could feel his body against him, and the wand against his chest was more like an embrace than a threat.

He turned slightly and looked over his shoulder at Malfoy. Their eyes met for one heartbeat, another, then another. His stomach lurched. Then they were kissing again. Malfoy pressed him against the door, he pulled Malfoy against him with his good arm, and Malfoy’s head was tilted all the way to one side, and Malfoy’s tongue was in his mouth and he felt as if he were going to be overwhelmed. 

“Draco?” The voice called again, right behind his head now. 

Malfoy broke away, breathing harshly, and held him by the bicep on his good arm, and opened the door to reveal Kazimir Dolohov standing there. As he looked at them he frowned, opened the door wider and levelled his wand at him. “Should I—?”

“No,” Malfoy said, pushing him out in front of him and letting go of his arm. “He’s under Imperius.” 

_What?_

_Really?_

Kazimir Dolohov grinned. “I understand your Imperius is very powerful.”

“Er, yeah,” Malfoy muttered. 

“He put up quite a struggle, I see,” Kazimir Dolohov said, looking at their flushed faces and heavy breathing. 

“Oh,” Malfoy said. “Yeah.” 

He’d never heard Malfoy so inarticulate before. 

“Send him to the room with the other prisoners,” Dolohov said. 

Malfoy flicked his wand at him and he took that as his cue to start walking, zombie-like, down the hallway. He went as slowly as he could, because he wasn’t sure what Malfoy intended. 

_We should have just gone back into the secret passage._

His pulse was still racing. He could feel where Malfoy’s mouth had touched his. The thought of being alone in that secret passage with Malfoy was enough to make his cheeks grow even hotter. He didn’t want to be walking _away_ from Malfoy right now. He wanted to stay as close to him as he could. Preferably as close as having Malfoy’s arms arms around him. 

_He does like me._

Malfoy definitely did. And he wanted to take advantage of that fact. Right now. 

“Make him walk faster,” Dolohov said. “I can’t walk like the living dead behind him all day.” 

Malfoy didn’t say anything, but he assumed Malfoy was flicking his wand at him. 

_I’m not going to walk faster._

_It was his idea to get Dolohov involved._

_I was all for going back into the secret passageway and wreaking mayhem from there._

He would have said so, except he’d been taught not to talk with his mouth full. 

_Hehe._

Then suddenly he realised something. Malfoy was giving him a chance to free Dumbledore’s Army himself. By saying he was under Imperius, Malfoy was making Dolohov think that he, Harry, didn’t need to be supervised. That he was fine to walk off on his own to the room full of prisoners and he wouldn’t try to run away or anything. 

_So I can free Dumbledore’s Army myself._

He could free the DA members who had been taken hostage _and_ capture the Death Eaters. 

_Brilliant._

_It’s brilliant._

He had to give Malfoy credit. It was a stroke of genius. He started to run, leaving them both behind. As he went he heard Dolohov laugh, “Okay, that’s better.” He ran all the way down the corridor and, remembered which door was which, and stopped in front of it. He tried the handle. It was locked. 

And then he felt the sensation of the Imperius curse behind cast on him. 

_Oh…fuck._

He wanted to turn his head to see if Malfoy had cast it—

_It can’t be Malfoy who cast it._

_Can it?_

_No._

_He wouldn’t…_

But his own thoughts were being lulled by a rich male voice saying, “Raise your wand… perform this spell…” 

_It’s Dolohov._

_Making me cast a spell._

He tried to resist. He put all of his willpower into it, remembering when Mad-Eye Moody had cast the Unforgivable on him in fourth year, how he’d fought it. How he’d banged his knee against the desk when Mad-Eye wanted him to jump and he’d resisted. 

_The spell could be anything._

_He could be cursing me to go in there and AK every single member of the DA._

He clamped down, fighting as hard as he could. But he wasn’t as strong as he had been. He could feel that. He was slipping. Slipping… 

_I’m weak._

_I’m weak and powerless._

_I can’t even resist this Imperius._

He couldn’t resist the Amortentia and now he couldn’t resist Malfoy, and what was to become of him? 

The Imperius took hold of him and he watched impassively as his arm rose and his wand started making complicated movements and his mouth moved and spoke with a voice that didn’t seem his own the words of a spell he didn’t know and didn’t understand. The door opened. His hand fell. He felt the Imperius slip away. 

As he walked into the room which held the DA prisoners, he felt the hopeless feeling intensify. 

_Harry, you haven’t given up, have you, mate?_

He’d fallen so far. He’d gone from a hero to someone who snogged Draco Malfoy while under arrest by the Death Eaters. 

_Can anything bring me back?_

_Can anything make me that person again?_

He forced himself to walk into the room and face them. He was going to make this happen. 

_My plan will._

_My plan will make everything better._

_It will._

He remembered what Kazimir Dolohov had said—that there were no Portkeys in Dubrovnik, no way to get the Death Eaters back to England once they were captured. 

_Why not the Malfoy method?_

_Imperius them and put them on an airplane._

Other wizards might not be able to do that, he realised. Malfoy had scoffed at wizards’ fear of Muggle technology. He had completely avoided anything to do with the Muggle world ever since he came to Hogwarts. It wasn’t just because he didn’t want to be part of the Muggle world any more. It was also that the longer he spent in the wizarding world, the more he started to view the Muggle world with suspicion and dislike. Like wizards and witches did. 

 _Did Malfoy learn about Muggle technology_ on purpose _,_

_to give himself a skill that most wizards don’t have?_

He had to admit, it was a clever strategy. What was Malfoy going to do with those skills? It wasn’t just so that he could go on holiday to exotic Eastern European countries. 

_He’s up to something with this._

It amazed him to realise that after all this time he was still no closer to finding out exactly what Malfoy’s end game was. 

_I just don’t believe his reasons._

He closed the door behind him and walked into the room where Ron, Pansy Parkinson, Dean Thomas and Luna Lovegood were being held. 

“I’m back,” he called. “And you won’t believe—”

He stopped short. 

The room was empty.

A deathly silence reigned.

“Oh… _bugger_ ,” he said out loud. He quickly checked under the bed, behind the various bits of furniture, looked inside the walk-in wardrobe and the ensuite. 

_They’re gone._

He sat down on the bed. 

 _Well, that’s_ my _plan gone to_ shit _._

He sat there and ran his tongue over his lips. It was as if Malfoy had bewitched him. He had never felt like this about anyone before. Ever. It was as if Malfoy had cast a spell on him so that when he saw that bottle of Amortentia, he had no choice but to take it immediately, to drink it down. He imagined what it would have been like if the potion Dumbledore had had to drink out of that basin had tasted like Honeydukes fudge. So that even as Dumbledore drank it down greedily, asking for more, it would have been slowly burning through his insides and destroying him. 

_Malfoy’s like that._

_Isn’t he?_

Malfoy was like a sweet poison, an irresistible poison, which he could drink until he was drunk on it and still beg for more. 

_That’s what the Amortentia did._

He never knew a love potion was like a poison. But it was. It was just another route to death. 

_Isn’t it?_

Except maybe it wasn’t your body that died, but your soul. Like a Dementor’s Kiss, a vampire kiss, that was Malfoy’s kiss. 

_He is like a Veela._

_He’s beautiful, but underneath…_

He shook his head. Malfoy was just what he had always seemed to be. He wasn’t anything different. He hadn’t found out anything about Malfoy over the past week that made him change his mind about him. Everything he’d seen Malfoy do just confirmed what he already knew about him. 

_Don’t start to think he’s changed…_

_you know he hasn’t changed._

_Don’t start to think anything like that._

He sighed heavily. His arm hurt. It really, really hurt. It was aching dully, but a deep, persistent ache that seemed like it was never going to go away. He was here playing this cat and mouse game which seemed like it was never going to end and he just wanted it to. But everything had gone wrong and it just seemed like there was no point any more. 

_I don’t want to be alone._

He was stupid to think Malfoy understood him. 

_Stop being stupid like that._

_Just stop._

He needed to get his head on straight again. He had done cleaning charms on himself. That was how stupid he was. 

_Hermione taught me all those cleaning charms._

_For in winter when it was too cold to take a bath._

_And we were camping in the woods._

She’d taught him a tooth cleaning charm as well, for at the end of a long day it was sometimes too much trouble to brush your teeth and this way you could do it while lying in bed. 

_I never heard of that charm before._

_I wouldn’t be surprised if she invented it herself._

_Her parents are dentists after all._

He had done the cleaning charms on himself and the tooth cleaning one as well, while Malfoy walked away from him in the secret passageway carrying the Death Eaters’ wands. He’d done them quickly, as quietly as he could, and he’d immediately felt better and that was when he decided he was going to kiss Malfoy. His arm was really hurting him. He felt so tired, all of a sudden, that he wanted to just lie down on the bed right now and not get up again. Malfoy—Malfoy’s tongue when it probed his mouth, gentle at first, then it had gone deeper. And he’d felt it. Not just in his mouth. He’d felt it like he was the insides of a clamshell. Defenceless. His heart hurt.

_I thought he would be rough._

_To punish me._

But Malfoy had been as tender as the fresh skin on a newly-healed wound. He closed his eyes. 

_Hermione said that all the people I love are dead._

_I think she was right._

Dumbledore had always told him that his greatest strength was that he could love. 

_He was wrong._

_He was so wrong._

_I stopped being able to love when I stopped loving Auntie._

He stared at the carpet. It was patterned with stars and unicorns, entwined in a dance. Malfoy had screamed his head off and ran when he saw Quirrell drinking the unicorn’s blood, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t cried in seven years. Not properly. Not even when Sirius died. 

_I cried more for Dobby the House Elf than for my own godfather._

_I didn’t even like Dobby._

He had only seen Sirius a few times. Not enough to even know anything about him. 

_Sirius didn’t want me._

_Not really._

Sirius hadn’t done all of those things he’d hoped Sirius would do. Like take care of him. Like…

_Don’t say it._

_Don’t._

Lupin hadn’t done it either. Lupin hadn’t… nor Mad-Eye Moody… 

_None of them wanted to be my father._

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were kind, but they couldn’t be like parents to him. They had too many of their own children. 

_I wanted someone to be mine._

It wasn’t just that they all died. It was that while they were alive, none of them had wanted him. 

_It almost makes it better that they died._

_Then you can imagine they might have changed their mind later._

There was a loud banging on the door. He started, jumped about a mile high, and then sank back, not bothering to get up. Then the door opened. 

“I’ll talk to them. Yes, alright,” it was Malfoy’s voice. Malfoy came inside and shut the door. Malfoy walked into the room and he heard his intake of breath, and then, “Awww.”

He glanced up in surprise. 

Malfoy was shaking his head. “Look at you,” he said with a half smile. “Sitting there.” Malfoy came toward him. “Looking so sad.” Malfoy’s tone was almost childish, but playful at the same time. Malfoy looked as if he wanted to sit down next to him, but didn’t dare. The smile faded from his face. “They’re gone,” Malfoy said obviously, then stopped talking. Malfoy went to the wall next to the fireplace and thumped on it with his fist until it popped open. “Get inside,” he hissed. “I’ll tell Dolohov you escaped with the rest of them. Did you see where they went?” 

He stood up wearily and shook his head. 

Malfoy clasped his hands to his chest. “Potter,” he said, coming toward him. “What is it?” 

He shook his head. 

_Don’t do this._

_You gave in before._

_But don’t do it again._

_You can fight Amortentia._

_You can fight Imperius._

_You can fight anything._

_You’re Harry Potter._

Malfoy was hovering nearby, his hands still clasped over his heart as if all he wanted to do was reach out and hold him. He walked slowly toward Malfoy. “Potter?” Malfoy murmured, and when he got much closer, he touched his forehead to Malfoy’s shoulder. Malfoy breathed, “Potter,” and he felt Malfoy’s fingertips on his back. He pressed himself against Malfoy, his face in Malfoy’s shoulder, and Malfoy wrapped his arms all the way around him. He could feel Malfoy trembling and hear his shaky breath and feel the heart beating in his chest. He snaked his arm around Malfoy’s lower back and pulled him closer. Malfoy tightened his arms around him, gasping slightly. Malfoy was warm. He was as angular and hard as he looked, but there was gentleness to him which made his touch seem soft. Malfoy didn’t say anything. He just kept his arms around him. His face was in Malfoy’s neck. He could feel a pulse beating against his lips.

It seemed like forever before he loosened his grip, but he didn’t want to let go. He stood there with one hand still on Malfoy’s side. Malfoy now had his hands on his arms. He wanted to meet Malfoy’s eyes, but he was also afraid to. 

Malfoy chucked him gently under the chin. “Keep that chin up,” Malfoy whispered. 

He looked up to see Malfoy’s smile, which always made his eyes turn a beautiful shape of crescent moon. Malfoy kept hold of his chin, pulled on it gently, and placed a perfect peck of a kiss on his lips, and then on his forehead, which made him shiver all over with a sudden, blatant terror. 

His heart was pounding again, but not with the desire for Malfoy. It was pounding with fear. 

Malfoy’s eyes searched his face. “Potter?” He said. 

_Dumbledore was wrong._

_Dumbledore was the last one._

_The last one I thought could be my father._

_He didn’t love me either._

_He did not, Hermione._

_Look at this mess he left me in._

He couldn’t breathe. He felt as if he was in Apparition, but without Apparating. 

“Fuck,” he heard Malfoy mutter under his breath. 

Just hearing Malfoy say that made a fresh wave of terror choke his throat. 

_Oh jesus…_

_Jesus, no…_

_Not again._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	92. Brave And Strong

**Draco**

_This is the perfect time for you to have a panic attack, Potter._

He could feel himself going into rescue mode, as he had so many times when Aunt Bella had an attack. His heartbeat actually slowed down, his breathing steadied and he focused solely on getting Potter calm again. Potter’s gaze was unfocused and his chest was hiccoughing from rapid breathing. He had gone white and within moments there was a sheen of sweat on his face and trickling down his hairline. 

_Perfect, perfect, perfect time._

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m here with you. Breathe in,” he said. “Count with me. One, two, three, four, five. Hold your breath. Now, let it out. Slowly.” He had said it and done this routine so many times that it actually calmed _him_ down as well, in a strange way. Mum had taught him to do it just as she did. He hadn’t known, at the hospital, if it would work for Potter, but it seemed to have, and so he did it again now, careful not to touch Potter, not to stand too close. Potter seemed to be trying to follow what he was saying. 

_What brought this on?_

He was forcing himself to be calm, but his mind was going over the last couple of minutes in excruciating detail. Potter had come to him to be held. He had done so, struck with awe. Struck with wonder. Struck with pain for Potter’s pain which he must be feeling, or why embrace his worst enemy?

_Does touching me give Potter panic attacks?_

He started the cycle again. “Breathe in,” he said. “Count with me.” 

_He kissed me._

_He kissed me again._

He was trying to figure out what possessed Potter to kiss him in front of the fire, but he knew he shouldn’t. He was trying to figure out what had possessed him to try to kiss Potter properly again once they stood up, with Kazimir Dolohov at the door, waiting, about to break the door down. He was trying to figure out what made Potter respond by parting his lips. 

“One, two, three, four, five.”

He was trying to figure out what possessed Potter to look back at him in that way and tilt his head back when he was about to march him out the door pretending he was his prisoner. He was trying to figure out what possessed him to fit his mouth perfectly into Potter’s and push him against the door which Dolohov was hammering on, with Potter pulling him closer forcefully and his tongue frantically probing Potter’s mouth. 

“Hold your breath.”

In a moment of desperation he had seen what he had tried to hide from himself, that he was so in love with Potter that it was no good, he couldn’t possibly stop, couldn’t possibly resist, couldn’t possibly control himself. Not when Potter looked at him in that way, standing in front of him and just looking over his shoulder as if to say, _What are you going to do now?_

“Now, let it out. Slowly.”

He’d pushed himself against Potter and thought, _This is the last time now. This is the last time I’ll see him. Make this one count._

He still felt light-headed. He’d barely been able to figure out what Kazimir Dolohov was saying once Potter went off down the corridor toward the room where the prisoners were being held. He’d watched him go feeling like his heart was being wrenched out of his chest by someone’s bare hand. 

_But they escaped._

_Now how am I going to get Potter out of here?_

Potter sat down heavily on the end of the king size bed. He sat down next to him. He had a choice between Potter and Father. 

_I can’t save them both._

He tried to keep his face calm, because Potter might pick up on any distress he was showing. People were often more sensitive to the emotions of those around them than they consciously realised. 

_It’s Potter_

_or Father._

Father was going to kill Dolohov and Greyback tonight. He knew he was. He’d tried to give father the Wolfsbane potion so that the werewolf would become docile and easier to kill. 

_He didn’t want it._

_He wants to duel him._

That was part of getting revenge. Besting Greyback at strength. It wasn’t so satisfying to slay a weakened enemy. 

_If I stay, maybe I can prevent it. Kill Greyback first. I don’t know._

He looked at Potter. 

_Do I really have to choose between saving Harry Potter from himself and…_

_saving my father from himself?_

Father could just walk away. Deny his thirst for revenge. It would do no-one any good. 

_But he doesn’t think like that._

_He won’t rest until he has revenged himself._

_Until he has avenged Sir’s death._

What would Sir want him to do? He didn’t know. Surely Sir had faced a thousand dilemmas like this. 

Potter seemed to be breathing normally now. He was staring into space, looking like a lost waif. 

He stood up slowly, so as not to startle Potter. 

_I need to get him out of here, before anything else happens that could set him off again._

_None of them have any wands._

_What’s the worst they could do to try to stop us from leaving?_

Kazimir Dolohov _did_ have a wand, though, and he would need to get past him in order to get Potter out of here. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and went for the door. He didn’t want to leave Potter alone, but he couldn’t wait any longer to find a way out of here.

_It’s not his fault, remember._

_It’s never anyone’s fault when this happens._

It had happened to Aunt Bella so frequently that she lost all status within the ranks of the Dark Lord’s followers. But she wouldn’t take potions for it, because the Dark Lord spoke to her privately, so only she could hear, and if she took her potions, she couldn’t hear the Dark Lord any more. Or so she believed. Mum had told him, _Now that your father is in prison. I must replace him._ He knew that the Dark Lord would not have cared if she hadn’t. The Reptile viewed witches as inferior to wizards and was loath to allow them to join his Servants. He knew Mum had joined for Aunt Bella. 

But Mum couldn’t protect Aunt Bella, in the end. She couldn’t protect Aunt Bella from her soul-deep appetite for self-destruction. 

_But I am going to protect Potter._

_I am._

_Whatever it takes._

He opened the door and went back into the hallway, closing it behind him. Kazimir Dolohov was nowhere to be seen. 

_He’s probably looking for Dumbledore’s Army._

_Dolohov Senior will blame him for their escape._

_He was on guard, after all._

_Now. Do it now._

He would grab Potter, take him down the stairs and out the front door, which he bet was still unguarded as it had been earlier. He would get Potter out of this treacherous house full of Servants.

He went back into the room to get Potter. 

He was gone.

_No._

The bed was empty. The door to the servants’ passage stood open. The servants’ passage was not lit, so it gaped blackly in the middle of the expensive, tasteless room like a cavern or a pit leading into the unknown, into the deepest recesses of fear. “ _Lumos_ ,” he was sprinting before he even knew what he was doing, into the passageway, looking left and right. 

_What if Dumbledore’s Army found out about these passages?_

_What if this is how they escaped?_

In the tight, narrow and oppressive passageway, he didn’t know which way to go. He closed the door to the bedroom behind himself, to cover his tracks. 

_Oh Hecate_

_Potter fancies me too._

_No!_

_That’s not—_

_You need to figure out which way to go._

_Go, go, go._

He turned left, running as quickly and quietly as he could. If his navigation was correct, this should bring him to the outer wall of the house. 

_Is Potter hiding here?_

_He kissed me._

_Oh, Hecate he kissed me._

_He fancies me back._

_He does. He likes me._

A wall loomed up ahead of him, and he stopped. This was the end. He needed to turn back and go where the passage met the hallway, and find the next strip of passage running along. The passage could only run where there were no walls or doors. Or rather, walls and doors interrupted the passage. 

_Where did he go?_

Potter would need to break out into the hallway, as he had done downstairs, and that made it a much bigger risk that he would be caught. 

_What is he going to do?_

He didn’t even know what Potter was planning to do to the Servants if he had a chance to get near them. Just like when Potter and Ron Weasley burst in, he would be quickly overwhelmed. 

_I shouldn’t have shown him those wands._

_Now he knows the Servants are wandless, he’ll…_

_He’ll think he can beat them on his own._

He closed his eyes in despair and all he could see was Potter looking at him, that time after he’d told him about the Moaning Myrtle episode—when Potter had started roughhousing with him and he’d upended the sofa. Potter teasing him, laughter in his eyes, downstairs, when Potter had made the joke about his Dark Mark being painted on. 

_He does like me._

_He does._

He turned to go back along the passage when his wand light fell on something at the end of the passage, where he was standing now. He realised that there had been a cool breath of wind blowing along his neck all this time and he hadn’t even noticed it properly. His wand light was showing not a wall, going up to meet the external wall of the house—but a gaping black hole. 

_Hecate._

_Is that…_

He pointed his wand at it. It was a staircase leading downward. He breathed in slowly. He’d assumed the network of secret passages was fairly straightforward—but this suggested it was much more complex than he’d thought. 

_Do I go down?_

He had no idea where it would come out. He took the first couple of steps cautiously. They were solid—it wasn’t that he was worried they were rickety, even in here he could still smell fresh paint. 

_But where do they lead?_

He continued down, silently and cautiously, until he came to the bottom, which ended in what must be a hidden door just like the other rooms had. He heard voices and extinguished his wand light immediately. 

_Oh Hecate._

_No._

It was Potter. He recognised the tone of voice even before he processed what was being said. 

“You’re going to pay,” Potter said. 

There was a laugh in reply. “You killed him,” the voice replied. “You think you can kill us all?” 

“I will if I have to,” Potter growled in response. 

He banged on the door and it popped open. He stumbled out into the room, missing the final step on the staircase, to find Potter standing over the prone figure of Yaxley, who was lying on the floor, motionless. 

 _He must have cast_ Petrificus Totalus _on him._

Potter looked up and his jaw tightened. He looked back at Yaxley. “Look who’s here,” Potter said with a note of triumph in his voice. “And all this time you thought he was loyal to you.” 

He stood by Potter’s side and looked down at Yaxley, who probably wanted to leer. “Him,” Yaxley sneered. “We all know about him. He’s an informer.” Yaxley probably wanted to spit at him, but he couldn’t move his body enough to do it. 

Potter’s eyes were focused intensely on Yaxley. “Yeah,” he said. “He is.” 

He felt his heart turn to the consistency of a pudding, all wobbly and threatening to fall apart. He glanced at Potter, who glanced at him. 

_Hecate knows I love you._

“Draco,” Yaxley sneered. “He’s a mealy-mouthed turncoat is what he is. He couldn’t live up to the Dark Lord’s standards, could he? He didn’t recruit a single Death Eater from Hogwarts,” Yaxley sniggered. 

“Of course he didn’t,” Potter said. “He’s loyal to me.” Potter looked at him, holding his gaze as he said, “And he has been all this time.” 

_Oh Hecate._

_It’s true._

_It’s so true._

He looked back at Potter, their eyes locked together as if someone had spilled a very strong tube of Magical Adhesive. 

_I’d die for you._

“Yes,” Yaxley leered. “But you should have seen him show us what he does to you,” Yaxley sniggered like a drain emptying. “What he does to you. The Dark Lord made him show us. That was the funniest thing I’ve seen in an age. Never woulda thought the Chosen One takes it up the back passage. And Draco Malfoy, he’s a goer, alright.” Yaxley dissolved into a fit of giggles. 

_Oh…no._

_No, no no…._

His heart had fallen as fast as Dumbledore’s body had fallen off the Astronomy Tower. He’d been dreading this forever. Ever since Dumbledore’s Army tied him to those shower taps. Ever since Potter had looked him in the eye in the Head Boy’s room and said, 

_I’m going after the Death Eaters._

He could endure anything, any humiliation, he could endure knowing he was as worthless as half a slug which had fallen off someone’s Potions chopping board onto the floor. Anything but this. 

_At least he kissed me for real._

_At least he really did like me._

_Even if it was only for a few moments._

It was always the briefest time with him and Potter. Potter could only stand to like him for the shortest possible time, because something terrible he had done would always come back to put paid to his feelings. Something would always alert Potter to the fact that he was the lowest scum on the planet. 

Potter looked down at Yaxley. “What did he do?” He said. 

Yaxley grinned. “The Dark Lord made him show us how he fucks you.” 

Potter jerked imperceptibly at this. 

_I should just die now._

He didn’t want to think about it. He’d been trying not to think about it for months. They’d all stood around him. He’d gotten onto his knees. Every moment he’d been certain that they were going to make him undress, or bring out an animal and make him fuck that. He could feel a trickle of sweat run down his temple. 

_Potter is going to have another attack._

_I just know it._

_He’s going to set Yaxley on fire, isn’t he?_

But Potter just stared at Yaxley and said, “I’m sure you enjoyed watching, you sick, twisted freak.” 

Yaxley just laughed harder. 

_Please let me die._

_I don’t want to be Draco Malfoy any more._

Potter turned to him, and he flinched at Potter’s very gaze. 

_I’m sorry_

The words were on his lips, but then Potter reached up and wrapped his good arm around his neck and kissed him hard. Potter broke away and turned to Yaxley. “How about that? Did you like that? Want to see more?” 

Potter turned back to him, and he was ready this time. He swept Potter up and leaned him over like an old Hollywood starlet while Potter kissed him, passionately, and for real, not faking at all, Potter’s mouth open under his, Potter’s tongue working its way into his mouth. He could feel Potter’s heart pounding against his own. He brought Potter back up and, breathless, he kept one hand on Potter’s waist as Potter turned back to Yaxley. 

“ _That’s_ how he fucks me,” Potter spat, and then Potter actually spat, literally, and the spit landed on Yaxley’s chest and he grimaced in disgust. 

And then Potter _took his hand_ and led him toward the door, walking fast, still panting from the kiss. 

_What in Hecate’s name is happening?_

He couldn’t think. He felt as if he had been put in one of those Muggle devices—a washing machine—and spun until his eyes crossed. Potter’s hand was warm. Potter stopped just before the door and looked at him and said, “Ready?” 

He hesitated. 

_Hecate help me._

_Please help me._

_If I let him…_

He wanted to believe that Potter was strong and brave and loved him—more than anything else in the world, he wanted to believe that. He looked into Potter’s eyes, emerald green, a shade he had never seen before. 

_He likes you now._

_Just let him go and be a hero._

_Let him go and have his moment._

_He might love you._

_What if he might love you and this is the only way you’ll find out?_

Potter could go and take down the Death Eaters now, he’d almost set it all up for him. He’d taken the wands and they had burned them. Dumbledore’s Army had buggered off on their own, so there was no-one to steal the spotlight from Potter. Together they could incapacitate all the Death Eaters, and then Father could do what he liked with Dolohov and Greyback. 

His chest was heaving. He wanted to kiss Potter again. Potter didn’t look sick. He looked strong and beautiful, he looked like a hero. 

_A hero who loves me._

Maybe, just maybe loved him. 

_Oh my Hecate Potter, I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long._

_I never thought it would come true._

_You’re like a dream come true to me._

He seized Potter and kissed him. Potter accepted willingly, Potter’s arm around his neck, his arms around Potter’s waist and shoulders, and Potter’s lips as soft as rose petals, as soft and sweet as the treacle tart the Elves at Hogwarts made and which he knew was Potter’s favourite. Potter’s fingers went into his hair and Potter let out a sound like a moan. He pushed Potter against the door and kissed him over and over again, every time just made him want more. When he finally had to get a breath, Potter was looking at him with lazy, dark eyes, his chest heaving, the prettiest blush on his cheeks. 

“I’m ready,” he gasped. 

Potter grinned at him. “Let’s go get them.” Potter’s fingers pushed his hair back. 

“Okay,” he said, and leaned in just one more time. Just once more before they went back into danger again. 

_I can protect him._

_I’ll be there._

_I’m his sworn mage, after all._


	93. Solid Rock Could Melt

**Harry**

He was against the door, in Draco Malfoy’s arms and Malfoy was kissing him and he was kissing back. His heart was pounding. Malfoy smelled like vanilla, and some seductive flower, and the faintest touch of cologne and sweat, all rolled into one.   
****

_You haven’t give up, have you, Harry, mate?_

The kiss was passionate like he had never felt before. Not even with Ginny. Not even when Ginny had touched him in the long grass in a secluded corner of the Hogwarts grounds. He could feel his body getting hot, and everywhere Malfoy was touching him burned. Malfoy’s mouth was as pretty as he’d imagined it would be, and it was his, all his. Malfoy only liked him. Malfoy had told him so. And Malfoy was like a snake around him, a boa constrictor twining around him, holding him powerfully, and Malfoy might suck all the life out of him if he let him.

_I’ve given in._

The way Malfoy kissed was hungry, like he was starving. Like a thirsty man reaching the oasis after weeks wandering the desert, drinking only the dewdrops from desert plants. And every time Malfoy kissed him, it seemed to stoke his own thirst. So that what had been a licking flame slowly eating him from within grew into a roaring inferno which was sweeping through him, obliterating everything in its path. Malfoy’s tongue stroked his own and he did the same in return, forcing Malfoy’s mouth closer, closer with his hand in Malfoy’s hair. 

_Yes, yes, yes._

_More._

Malfoy was something different now, which he hadn’t known before. He hadn’t known that Malfoy had a wicked sense of humour. He hadn’t known that Malfoy would listen to him. And believe him. He hadn’t known that Malfoy was beautiful and sexy enough to drive him mad.

_He believes in me._

Everyone else had stopped believing in him, but Malfoy still did. He pressed himself even closer to Malfoy, wanting to get even closer. Malfoy had done something no-one else had. Malfoy had seen him at his worst, when he was as weak and raw and defenceless as the baby Voldemort himself, and Malfoy had responded with… with kindness. Malfoy had shown him weakness over and over again, but somehow it hadn’t made Malfoy weaker, not in the end. He’d thought Mafloy was pathetic, but he’d been wrong. 

_He read those newspapers for me._

_He stayed up all night for me._

Malfoy’s lips parted from his and Malfoy, panting for breath, looked into his eyes. “I’m ready,” Malfoy said. 

He looked back into Malfoy’s eyes. “Let’s go get them,” he said, and grinned. He combed his fingers through Malfoy’s hair. It was so silky, shiny and strong. 

“Okay,” Malfoy said. 

He pulled Malfoy back toward him once more. He just wanted to kiss him once more. Malfoy paused, his mouth barely touching his. He breathed in the warm breath coming out of Malfoy and when he breathed out, Malfoy breathed in his breath in turn. Malfoy returned the breath once more, but a rising desire was sweeping through him, culminating in his lips, and he couldn’t wait any longer. Again he felt raw and tender somewhere inside himself, and his arm hurt. It hurt a lot. He pressed his lips to Malfoy’s and with a sigh Malfoy’s hands came up to his face and the kiss was perfect, perfectly painful. 

_I never knew it could feel so good and so bad at the same time._

He never thought he would be pashing with Draco Malfoy with a Death Eater lying on the floor a few feet away. He never thought he would actually believe what Malfoy had said to him that day in Gryffindor Tower, when Malfoy had told him he was going to protect his life. He’d thought there could be no worse bodyguard than Draco Malfoy, to be quite honest. 

_I was wrong about that._

Malfoy had helped him all this time, and Malfoy had kept him safe, and Malfoy had saved his life, and Malfoy had brought him to the Death Eaters. 

_He kept his word._

When he’d had the panic attack upstairs and Malfoy had been there, to help him, he’d realised it could have been much worse if Malfoy wasn’t there. It had passed relatively quickly once he started doing what Malfoy told him to, and he’d felt—

_Safe._

_I felt safe._

_Because he was there._

He opened the door a crack and put his ear to it. He couldn’t hear anything. He glanced at Malfoy. “I don’t hear anything,” he whispered. 

Malfoy nodded, checked his wand was in his sleeve, and looked ready to go. 

His own wand was in the waistband of his trousers. He went out the door into the hallway as quietly as he could. It was the same hallway he and Malfoy had come down earlier, when Malfoy had hidden him from the Death Eaters. They both started walking toward the end, which led into the vestibule. Their footsteps sounded on the marble. He glanced at Malfoy. 

_In some ways it’s the perfect ending._

_Everyone thinks we’re a couple anyway._

_And what else do you expect from the Boy Who_ _Lived To Become A Pariah_ _?_

He was still going to be put under arrest because of the Battle of Hogwarts. This wouldn’t change that. He’d hoped it would, but he realised now that it wouldn’t. It was like all the times when the general public formed an opinion about him. No matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to change their minds. And he’d tried. He’d tried for so long. He’d gotten angry about it. But now he was just going to accept it. 

_I’ve been disgraced._

He had been the Chosen One. The hope and light of the wizarding world. He’d been a hero. 

_I was Dumbledore’s man._

But now he was scum, hated by everyone. That dream he’d had when he went to sleep after the Battle of Hogwarts had been like a warning. A warning that things were not always what they seemed, that people could change, that what he took for granted was not certain. That even solid rock could melt under the right conditions. 

_I wonder where I can get more Amortentia._

This was his new life. Instead of trying to get his friends back, he could choose the other option. 

_It will start to wear off soon._

He could be with Malfoy. He didn’t know if Malfoy was going to be sent to prison, or if he was, but at least he’d have some company once he was there. And once they were released, they’d have each other. Malfoy didn’t have anyone, either. 

_I won’t be able to keep this up without it._

He glanced at Malfoy, walking beside him, and Malfoy glanced at him, a light in his eyes. He’d never thought he would be attracted to another bloke, but apparently Amortentia could do that to you. He’d never thought he’d be attracted to Malfoy, but again, Amortentia—it was a powerful drug. Potions were amazing when he thought about it. Dumbledore had the nerve to go on about love when Dumbledore didn’t even love anyone, himself. 

_This is what’s left for me now._

They both stopped behind the wall which led onto the vestibule. Malfoy put one hand on his shoulder, pointed at the opposite wall and went to it. He opened a hidden door and went inside. He followed. In the darkness and narrow space once more, Malfoy closed the door. 

“ _Lumos_ ,” he said, and Malfoy’s face appeared, ghostly, in front of him. 

“This way,” Malfoy whispered, walking ahead. Malfoy stopped short. 

He stopped right behind Malfoy, close in the confined space. 

_Whispering._

He could hear whispering. He let the Lumos on his wand go out. He felt Malfoy’s hand on his, in the darkness and he felt a shiver go up his spine. He took Malfoy’s hand and Malfoy led him down the passageway a bit, and then Malfoy turned and stopped, and his feet hit something. It was a flight of stairs, he realised. Malfoy led him up them and around—it was a corkscrew staircase, he realised from feeling the walls. Malfoy stopped and pulled his arm down. Malfoy had sat down on the stairs. He sat down on the step below Malfoy. He could hear his breathing in the darkness. It seemed very loud. Malfoy’s knees were next to him. He realised what Malfoy was doing. He had led them up the stairs so they could listen without the risk that anyone would find them. He thought, and he assumed Malfoy did too, that the voices were coming from somewhere along the ground floor passage ahead of them. Of course, it was possible someone would come down on them from upstairs, but the upstairs seemed to be almost empty now. And they would have the advantage if anyone did, sitting here silently in the dark. 

He strained his ears. Again he wished he had an Extendable Ear on him. Then there was a movement in the dark—he could hear and feel it more than see it— and Malfoy’s hand was on his shoulder, his neck, and Malfoy’s lips brushed his cheek, making their way to tickle his ear. Malfoy’s delicate whisper found his ear again. “I can do an amplification charm on you.” 

He nodded his head, not daring to speak. Then the whispers were suddenly much louder, almost staticky and too loud in his ear. Malfoy must have done the spell wordlessly. 

“Look at that one there,” the whisper was followed by a giggle. “He’s off his face.” 

More stifled, silent laughter. “I think he’s going to get up on that table.” 

Then even more laughter. “Get him. Get him now!” 

Silent laughter sounded like gasped panting. He heard Malfoy getting up and the sound was almost ear-splitting. “Ow,” he hissed. The silence returned immediately, like his ears had been stuffed with cotton wool. Malfoy must have reversed the charm. He stood up and realised Malfoy was going upstairs. He followed. When he got to the top of the stairs, his foot knocked against something which fell heavily to the ground. “Bugger,” he muttered. “ _Lumos_ ,” light flared in his eyes, blinding him, and a pattern of refracted diamonds was thrown against the walls. It was the vase the wands had been in. 

“Come on,” Malfoy said, and went back along the narrow passage. He followed. They were both walking quickly. Malfoy stopped and opened a door in the wall and went through. He followed, closing it behind him. They were back in the bedroom where they had burned the wands. 

Malfoy immediately went and locked the door. “Don’t turn on the lamps,” he said. “It will draw attention from outside.” The fire was still burning in the grate and it emitted a soft light. Malfoy went and sat in front of that. 

He followed, and sat down opposite. He was well aware that this was where he had first kissed Malfoy. 

_I want him to kiss me again._

“I’m so stupid,” Malfoy hissed. “I’m so _fucking_ stupid.” 

“No,” he said. “You’re not stupid.” 

Malfoy looked at him in surprise. Then he said softly, “Thank you,” still looking at him. 

_Oh Merlin._

He crossed the space between them and kissed Malfoy softly just once. Malfoy was pink. It looked stunning. “You were saying?” 

Malfoy smiled, the shyest smile, so that he wanted to just squeeze the life out of him, he looked so cute. “You were suspicious about the wands being left there. You were right.” 

_I was?_

He’d thought the Death Eaters were stupid to leave the wands there, but that was not surprising. Death Eaters were known to be stupid. 

“There’s something going on here,” Malfoy said. “I was a fool not to see it before now.” 

“That was Ron and Dean,” he said. “They… they stole my plan.” Ron and Dean had been hiding in the secret passage, firing off spells and taking down the Death Eaters. 

Malfoy looked like he was thinking hard. “When you and Ron Weasley came here,” he said. “How did you get in?” 

He shrugged. “The front gate was locked, but it opened with _Alohomora_.” 

“It opened with _Alohomora_ ,” Malfoy repeated. “What about the front door?” 

“Same again.” 

Malfoy put two fingers to his temple. “The gates were unlocked, the wands were left unguarded, all the Servants are off their faces by now. Dumbledore’s Army—”

“I thought they went back to headquarters,” he said. 

“Me too,” Malfoy replied. “But they must have left that room through the secret passage….”

“And now they’re attacking the Death Eaters through those peepholes in the walls,” he said. 

“Exactly. This… this is no accident, Potter. Pansy Parkinson is one of them. She’s in Dumbledore’s Army, I mean—”

“I know,” he said. “I can’t believe they let her in.” 

He shook his head. “I thought she was trying to please her father. Parkinson is high up in the Ministry. He’s not even here tonight. I assume he’s at the Ministry. Anyway,” Malfoy said, “she’s part of this. This is all….” Malfoy looked up, looked him in the eye. “This is a _trap_ , Potter.” 

He felt himself breathing fast. “A trap?” 

“It’s a trap for the Servants.” 

He frowned. “But—you think Pansy did all this—I mean—”

Malfoy shook his head. “It’s Dolohov.” 

_Dolohov?_

“But—he’s _one of them_ ,” he protested. “How can _he…_ ”

Malfoy stood up. “We need to get out of here, Potter,” he said. 

He stood up, glaring at Malfoy. “No.” 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “This is a—it’s a set up. Dolohov… I… I thought Dolohov was trying to secure their allegiance. It seemed like he was making a bid for power. But… that’s not it at all. He’s set this up beforehand. It’s a sting operation. He’s going to—” Malfoy’s eyes were golden-silver in the light from the fire. “He’s made a deal. He gets all the Servants in one place, makes them easy to capture, the Ministry gets their Death Eaters to put on trial, and he gets off easy because he _cooperated_.” 

_No way._

_The Ministry would never do that._

_Shackebolt would never do that._

Malfoy looked down at his hands as if he was counting off on his fingers. “Dolohov, Parkinson, Nott…” He fell silent. “It’s definitely them,” he said quietly. Malfoy looked at him. “There’s nothing more we can do now. Don’t you see? Someone else was supposed to take those wands. I just got there first. And this house…” Malfoy looked around at the walls. “It’s brand new. Absolutely brand new. You don’t think…” Malfoy wiped his hand over his mouth. “You don’t think this house was built specially? With all these secret passages?” 

He frowned. “Malfoy,” he said. “You’re reading too much into this. Why would he build an entire house? Just for this?” 

“He has to maintain plausible deniability,” Malfoy went on. “He can’t be seen as a grass. This is—this is clever because it’s _non-magical_ , do you see what I mean?” 

He shook his head. “No.” 

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair and huffed. “This is doing my head in.” 

_Well, mine too._

_None of this makes any sense._

“Kazimir Dolohov told me—he told _you_ —there are no Portkeys anywhere around here. And he sent the—whatever they’re called, the wizards who can make Portkeys—he sent them on holiday in Albania.” 

“Yes,” Malfoy said. “See, that way he could make sure no Servants could get away. He… he probably told them to come here so they could make a trip to Shqipëria together.” 

“Why Albania?” He said, wondering if he was an idiot because he didn’t understand why Albania was so important. 

Malfoy went and sat down on a nearby sofa which was placed under the window. “It’s where the forest is,” he said. “Where Riddle’s spirit went when he tried to kill you that first time. They won’t tell me everything. I’m not senior enough. They worship that forest like it was their own ancestors or something. Now that Riddle’s died again, they would have immediately wanted to go there to try to find him. See if he had been sent back to a ghost, see if they could raise him again.” 

He went and sat down on an armchair which was next to the sofa. “If the Death Eaters care so much about Riddle, why would Dolohov sell the rest of them out like that?” 

“They _don’t_ all care so much about him,” Malfoy said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you really think they all— I don’t know, worshipped him, or whatever?”

“Why else would they be around him?” He asked. “Unless they believed in his ideas about blood supremacy and they also seemed to think he was a—a god or something.” 

Malfoy shook his head. “There were a few zealots, of course. Who’d been radicalised by—I should add they weren’t _his_ ideas, they existed before he did. Vulnerable people, a lot of them… like my aunt… or the Carrows, I mean, you must have noticed they both have learning difficulties. Those are the sort of people who are easy to manipulate. But there were others who saw Riddle as an opportunity…” 

“An opportunity to get rid of all the Muggle-borns?” He said eagerly, starting to catch on now. Malfoy was clever. He really was.

Malfoy shrugged. “Not necessarily that.” 

“But that’s what they want,” he said. “They—they’re prejudiced against Muggleborns. Malfoy,” he said, “don’t try to say that you don’t think like that too. You’re prejudiced against Muggleborns too. You called Hermione—”

“Ideology is a powerful mask,” Malfoy said, “for the ambitions of those who would take control. That’s what my mother says.” 

“What does that mean?” He said, feeling irritated. The Amortentia must be wearing off. “Don’t try to pretend that you’re open-minded now and accept Muggleborns all of a sudden.” 

“I _mean_ , Potter,” Malfoy said, “that people sometimes support positions they don’t necessarily believe in, because they see how the political power could benefit them.”

“Are you making excuses for the Death Eaters?” He said hotly. “Because that’s what it sounds like.” His heart was beating faster and he was starting to feel anger licking at the edges of his mind like flames around a piece of paper. “Either you believe that all wizards and witches are—are equal, no matter where they were born— or you don’t.” 

Malfoy shook his head. “Unfortunately that’s…that’s… it’s more complicated than that.” 

“No, it’s _not_!” He retorted. He should have known it would come to this. 

_What did I expect from a Slytherin?_

_From a Death Eater?_

Malfoy’s lips were pursed tightly. “Why did you ask for my opinion if you don’t want to hear the truth?” 

He stood up. “It’s not the truth!” He nearly shouted. 

Malfoy stood up. “Be quiet! Someone will hear you.” 

“No!” He stared into Malfoy’s eyes, his chest heaving. “No.” 

They grabbed each other at the same instant, mouths mashing together and they fell back on the sofa. He banged his nose against Malfoy’s cheekbone and didn’t care. He lay on top of Malfoy and didn’t care that his arm hurt where it was trapped between them. His leg was between Malfoy’s two legs. Having Malfoy underneath him was like heaven. Malfoy’s mouth tasted like honey. Malfoy’s legs curled around his so they were twined together. His mouth was melded seamlessly with Malfoy’s and he was breathing heavily though his nostrils, unwilling to break for air. Malfoy’s arms were like a vice around him, holding him down. 

The door burst apart in a shower of wood splinters and he sprang off Malfoy so fast he nearly tripped and fell flat on his arse. 

Standing in the doorway, surrounded by debris of the exploded door, staring at the two of them in blatant shock, was Ron Weasley.

_Oh… fuck._


	94. Liar Traitor Coward

**Draco**

_Oh Hecate._

_Yes._

_Oh Hecate, Potter._

Potter was on top of him and kissing the living daylights out of him. He pulled Potter in and twisted his legs around him as much as he could, even though doing that made shivers run through him and his heart lurch in a way that terrified him. It felt like they fit together like a key in a lock or two puzzle pieces. He breathed in ecstasy and felt Potter’s ribs and shoulders under his hands. Potter was like a live wire and his weight on top of him was turning him rapidly into a helpless bundle of nerves and pounding heart. 

_Hecate._

He was short of breath but he didn’t want to lose Potter’s mouth all over his. He could feel his body moving of its own accord, a wave travelling through him, pushing him up against Potter. He was on the verge of letting out a moan as something inside him caught light and heat spread through the deepest parts of his body. 

_He’s going to set me on fire._

_And I don’t care._

_Send me up in flames._

_But don’t stop—_

_Please don’t stop this time._

_I want you_

_BANG_

Within half a moment he realised it was the door to the bedroom—it had exploded inward in a blast of wood fragments. A gust of air rushed over them. Potter disentangled himself so fast he was practically on the other side of the room before he’d barely registered what was going on. He sat up, panting for breath, and then he saw who it was that had broken down the door. 

_Oh, fuck._

Ronald Weasley was standing there, his mouth gaping unattractively and his eyes boggling as he looked from Potter, standing awkwardly pulling his t-shirt back into place where it had gotten twisted up, to himself, on the sofa, his long black robes bunched around his thighs. He didn’t pull them down. He felt his mouth curling into a smirk quite without his meaning it to. 

_How d’you like that, eh, Weasley?_

Ron Weasley stuttered, “Harry?” 

Potter seemed to be struggling to speak. 

Ron Weasley marched toward them, his face bright crimson, looking incensed. “What in Merlin’s name is going on here?” 

He arched an eyebrow. “None of your fucking business, Weasley,” he said, sitting back on the couch and crossing his legs. He let one of his arms drape casually over the arm of the sofa. 

Ron’s mouth worked. “Harry?” He said, turning to Potter and going toward him. “Are you alright?” 

Potter was shuffling one foot and looking at the ground. 

Suddenly he had a bad feeling about this. 

“What did he do to you, Harry? Ron said, going closer to Potter. 

Potter didn’t look at him. He cleared his throat. “Amortentia,” he muttered. 

His heart stopped. 

In the silence, he wished the sofa could swallow him up and he could disappear to another universe, another time, another dimension. Anything. 

Ron Weasley turned to him and regarded him with loathing in his eyes. “You—piece of _shit_!” Ron Weasley lunged at him, as if he was going to pounce on him and smash the brains right out of his head. 

He leapt off the sofa, out of Weasley’s path, and went behind an armchair. His heart was racing, but more than that he felt the sick, dull sensation of shame pouring through him. “No I did not,” he spat. “I did not and I can prove it.” He pulled up the hem of the long black robes and searched the pockets of his shorts. 

_Veritaserum._

_I had Veritaserum with me._

_I took a bottle from the house in the Old Town—_

Weasley looked at him like something nasty he’d found on the sole of his shoe. “Do you think we care about that? We’ve more important things to worry about now, Malfoy. I know you’re a treacherous little rotter but I never thought you’d pull something like that on Harry. Hasn’t he been through enough?” 

“Oh yeah,” he said. “You’ve been _so_ supportive. You’ve really taken good care of him, haven’t you Weasley?” 

Weasley set his jaw. 

_Hecate he’s ugly._

_He has got to be one of the ugliest wizards I’ve ever seen._

“I heard what you were all saying,” he said. 

Weasley looked disconcerted. 

_I can read this pisstaker like a piece of parchment._

“He’s bluffing,” Weasley said to Potter, who was still standing there like a lump, not making eye contact with anyone. “How do you know what we—how do _you_ know?” 

He came out from behind the armchair. Weasley seemed to have calmed his murderous impulses, at least for the moment. He stood there and looked at the two of them. “Because _I_ found out about the secret passages, _too_ , Weasley,” he said. “And I heard what you were saying about Potter after he left you, when he was Polyjuiced as me.” 

“So he already knows,” Weasley countered, clearly stalling for time. “You must have told him.” 

_Actually, no._

_I wanted to spare his feelings._

_I actually…_

_I was actually so fucking stupid as to_ care _about him._

He held on to his anger, which was all that was holding him together at this point, he could feel it. 

He raised his eyebrows at Weasley. “You call yourself his friend,” he said. “So why don’t you tell him? Be _honest_ , Weasley.” 

Weasley’s whole body transformed into a picture of rage. “You— _honest_ —” He choked.

“You can both go fuck yourselves,” Potter declared, walking away. “I don’t need a liar traitor coward around me which is what both of you are.” Potter was making for the door. 

“Harry—” Weasley went after him. “No, you can’t—”

“Fuck you too, Potter!” He shouted at Potter’s retreating back. “Fuck _you_ and your ancestors back to the tenth century!” 

Weasley paused and turned around. “I’m going to have to arrest you, Malfoy,” he said. 

Potter was out the door.

He drew his wand. “I’d like to see you try, Weasley,” he spat. 

Weasley looked between him and Potter, conflicted. “ _Bugger_ ,” he muttered and ran out of the room after Potter. “Harry. Harry!” 

He was left alone in the silence. Before he could think any more, he straightened his robes and ducked back into the secret passage, walking quickly and trying to follow Weasley and Potter’s conversation as they went along the hallway. He lit a low Lumos and picked up his pace, running his hand along the wall, looking for peepholes where he could get a glimpse of what was going on. 

_I need to find out what’s happening downstairs._

_I need to make sure everything’s all right with Father._

He couldn’t hear anything from the hallway. His fingers found the flat round cover of a peephole and he flipped it open and put his eye to it. He couldn’t see anything. Just an empty stretch of animal-print wall covering and a small end table holding a sculpture of a jaguar’s head made in black enamel with emeralds for eyes. He let the cover fall back over the peephole. 

“Well, well, well,” a girl’s voice said and a Lumos lit the darkness. “Why am I not surprised?” 

He turned to find Pansy Parkinson standing there, smirking at him, her arms folded in front of her. “Hey Pans,” he said wearily. 

“Are you shocked?” She asked. 

He shrugged. “You and Millie did a pretty good job making people think you were broken up,” he pointed out. 

She giggled. “I know. Think I could be an actress?” 

He couldn’t help but smile. “You fooled me.” 

“Remember at Hogwarts that night?” She laughed. “ _There he is! There’s Potter! Get him!_ ”

He nodded. “They bought it, that’s for sure.” 

She looked at him seriously. “Why didn’t you join us?” She whispered. “Why didn’t you run away?”

He looked down at the ground. He had to keep it together. 

“Was it because of your father?” Pansy whispered. “He wanted you to stay in the Death Eaters?” 

He shook his head. He could feel the tears building behind his eyes. He shook himself. “I’ve got to—” he hesitated. He needed to get past Pansy. 

_But how?_

He arched his eyebrow. “Are you going to arrest me now, Pans?” 

She laughed. “I don’t need to.” 

“Oh, really?” He replied, wracking his brain to figure out what she could mean. 

_Does she not have the authority?_

That seemed unlikely. Surely that was why Dumbledore’s Army were here at all. Anyone not able to make arrests was useless to the operation, surely. 

She looked at him rather pityingly. “Poor Draco. You’ve seemed so lost. I wish you had just…” she trailed off. 

_They are going to arrest me._

_She’s regretting what I could have avoided._

_That is, arrest. Court. Sentencing._

He needed to get past her, get downstairs and check on what father was doing. 

 _Potter doesn’t need_ me _any more._

_Not that he ever did._

He swallowed around the painful lump in his throat. 

_I need to get out of here._

“What should I have done?” He asked, trying to keep Pansy talking while he figured out a strategy. 

“I wish you had just confided in us,” Pansy said, suddenly choked up. She wiped her cheeks quickly. “I was so worried about you. But you pushed us away.” 

“You pushed _me_ away, as I recall,” he said bitterly. 

“That’s not fair,” Pansy said. “That’s not fair at all, Draco.” She crossed her arms around herself and hiccoughed. The tears were falling thick and fast now. “He sent you back to Hogwarts to recruit, didn’t he?” 

He didn’t say anything. 

“ _Didn’t he_?” She spat. “That was your real mission.” 

“The Dumbledore thing was a joke,” he said. “It was his idea of a joke. The idea of _me_ managing to assassinate Dumbledore really tickled his emaciated, grave-risen bones.” 

She wiped her face. “Millie says you always thought you were better than us,” she said.

“Pans…”

_It’s true._

_Actually._

“The others…” Pansy began. “We were alone. Once we realised that… We had to do it for ourselves.” She hiccoughed again. 

He reached out and hugged her. She hugged him back tightly, sobbing. 

“I just wish you’d been _with_ us,” she said. “Instead of now, you’re going to be arrested and…” 

He closed his eyes. He had always wanted to not be in Slytherin.

_I suppose they could tell…_

_I looked down on them._

“Everyone else told me to forget about you,” she said. “They said you were a coward and you should never have come back to Hogwarts.”

His nose was getting blocked. 

_They were right._

“But… I thought we were friends,” Pansy sobbed. “I thought we were like… best friends.” 

_We were._

“I thought you were trying to join,” he said. “I didn’t want you to.” 

“No,” she said, pushing him away and wiping her eyes again with the back of her hand. “Don’t blame it on that. You never told me anything. One day you just showed up with a Dark Mark and that was it. Everyone thinks I’m stupid to care when you didn’t care about us.” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and started dabbing her face. 

_We would have been best friends._

_If I had been willing to open up enough._

_If I hadn’t been so insecure._

_To be honest I was embarrassed by the lot of you._

“They were all against us,” she said. “They wanted to blame Slytherin for everything. Make everyone think we were all his followers. We went to Snape about you,” she said.

He nodded. 

I _went to Snape about me._

“He was working for Dumbledore,” he muttered. 

“I know,” she said. “But when Snape didn’t do anything, we went to other teachers too. No-one did anything.” 

“It was a game,” he said. “The Headmaster was playing this game with the—with the Dark Lord. And I was one of the pawns.” 

“And we were the rest of the pawns,” she said, still hiccoughing. She put the handkerchief back in her pocket. “You know, once Millie, Greg and Vince realised that we started to look for something we could do. And… it worked. Fuck the adults.” She gave him a watery smile. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t come with us. Once we _knew_ that you were sincere, we would have backed you all the way. You know, defended you to Ginny and everything. Dumbledore’s Army would have protected you. ” 

_Why didn’t I go?_

He felt his heart sinking away through the floorboards, probably sinking away into the depths of the earth to be lost forevermore. 

_There’s only one reason._

_There’s only ever been one reason._

_That reason goes by the name of Harry Potter._

“I’m… I’m sorry about everything, Pans,” he said. “I… I put everyone in danger.” 

She squeezed his shoulders. “The teachers put everyone in danger,” she said. “The headmaster put everyone in danger when he didn’t do anything to get rid of you.” She laughed. “Get rid of you. Like you were a rash.” 

“I was so sure I was going to be expelled,” he said quietly. “I was so sure. I thought, there’s no way they’ll keep letting this happen.” He closed his eyes. “That Gryffindor girl…” He felt sick just thinking about it. 

_How can I ever atone for what I did?_

_How can I ever be worth anything ever again?_

He had harmed people. He had harmed his own friends by coming back as a Death Eater and he had harmed himself by believing they were somehow lesser, so they could never really be friends. He had Imperiused Madame Rosmerta, who had always been kind to him. He had hurt that Gryffindor girl. He had nearly killed someone with that poisoned mead, although **he’d hoped giving it to the Potions master would mean there was antidote somewhere nearby**. He had let a bunch of Death Eaters into a school full of sleeping children. The fact that the Light knew the attack was coming and were standing by to respond didn’t absolve him from blame. 

 _Draco, he wants to spread fear_ , Sir had said. _The Dark Lord’s followers infiltrating your child’s school at night… Imagine what a nightmare that would be for any parent. That’s what he wants to achieve. This will undermine public trust in the Ministry even more. Two birds with one stone—see?_

Sir hadn’t foreseen Dumbledore’s martyrdom, though. No-one had foreseen that. 

 _They will find a way to kill off Severus Snape_ , Mum had said. _The Unbreakable Vow will die with him. I expect Whitebeard will give him a hero’s death of some kind. Defending a child from an attack, say. No-one is going to assassinate Whitebeard, let me tell you that. He’s like a cockroach. Impossible to kill._

Well, Whitebeard was dead now, and they were all swimming in the swirling debris floating in his wake. 

_How much of this did he plan?_

_And how much has just gone beyond his control after his death?_

“I meant what I said before,” Pansy said. “About being friends.” 

He smiled. “You got me,” he said. “I really thought you had come over to the Dark. Your father…”

She shrugged. “Millie and I are going to do our own thing. He just wants me to be happy, to be honest. He knows I’m not interested in politics.” 

“Well…” he said, “I’ll send you an owl after I get out of Azkaban. That’ll be in about thirty years’ time, I suppose.” 

She laughed. “Come on, it won’t be that long,” she said. “Let’s go downstairs. I think everything is almost set now.” 

_Set?_

_I’m not going to ask her._

_It would be pretty shitty of me to start needling her for information at this point._

She lit a bright Lumos on her wand and he started following her toward the stairs which led down to the vestibule. She pointed at the vase. “Was that you? We couldn’t figure out who did it.” 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Thought I was being clever, didn’t I?” 

She laughed lightly. “Oh, Draco. I never thought I’d see _you_ play the hero.” 

_Well, I thought I was playing the cool spy undercover._

_Or something._

They descended the stairs where he had sat with Potter and listened to the whispered voices of Dumbledore’s Army taking down Servants. He followed Pansy through the same hidden door where he and Potter had come through after Potter had taken Amycus Carrow down. 

_That’s how he fucks me._

He felt a heavy dread weighing on him, dragging him downwards. It was the dread of what would happen if he started thinking about what had happened between him and Potter. The dread of how he would feel. 

_I might as well just call it a day._

_This is over._

_This—life of mine._

_I’ve destroyed it. Bit by bit, year after year, choice after choice._

_I’ve got nothing left._

He followed Pansy into the vestibule. She was wearing a short printed cotton dress and jelly sandals. Presumably that was what she had been wearing under her robes, which she no longer needed, no longer pretending to be one of the Servants. She looked summery and light as a cloud. He looked down at his own robes. 

_I hate these things._

_I hate them._

_I’m not one of them._

_I never wanted to be._

_And I…_

It was funny how difficult it was to notice something in yourself that you could see plainly in others. 

_It was self-destructive of me to join the Servants._

_That’s what it was._

_An act of self-destruction._

Without another thought he started unbuttoning the buttons of the long robes, all the way down the chest to the navel, and then he shrugged off one shoulder, pulled off the long sleeve and the whole thing fell off and he stepped out of it, still walking, and left it behind him on the floor and kept walking. Cool air rushed over the bare skin of his legs and arms. He pulled down his tank top a little, ran his hand through his hair. 

_Fuck it._

_This is mine._

Pansy stopped by the toppled and cracked water feature with the centaurs, pointed at it and laughed. “Ron Weasley did that,” she said delightedly. “Isn’t that good?” 

“Brilliant,” he agreed, although to be honest he didn’t think knocking over a fountain was really that much to owl home about. 

Pansy caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye and turned to face him, her mouth dropping open and her eyes lighting up. “Oh _my_ —” she looked him up and down. “You look—oh my _Circe._ ” 

He knew he was going red with embarrassment. He crossed his arms. “I don’t usually wear it out of the house…”

“Well _now_ you do,” she squeezed his arm. “How do you have such good legs?” 

“Pans, alright,” he said. He was going to get enough attention. Most of it was not going to be so, er, positive. 

_I should really try to enjoy it._

_Right?_

She looked at his torso. “I love that top,” she said, her eyes raking over his chest.

“Pansy, stop,” he said, embarrassed. 

She grinned. “You just need some boobs to fill out that top.” 

He slapped her arm. “Don’t be so silly." 

 _I am_ _a_ man _._

_If even Pansy doesn’t get that…_

“You’re bright red,” she teased, laughing. 

“Pansy, stop!” 

She laughed and kept walking. 

He stood up straight and followed her. His Dark Mark was clearly visible on his arm. He looked at it in disgust, but he wasn’t going to glamour it. There was no point in trying to hide it. He had done what he had done. Maybe he should start taking responsibility for that. 

They passed from the vestibule into the games room where the Servants had all been drinking and amusing themselves before. The sofas and some of the floor was now filled with Servants who had been bound just as he and Potter had been when Dumbledore’s Army had sprung them at the Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade. He and Pansy stopped at the top of the steps which led into the sunken room and he felt every eye in the room turn on him and Pansy. 

Dean Thomas, who was standing with his wand out in front of a bank of two sofas holding Alecto and Amycus Carrow, Fenrir Greyback and Theodore Nott, took one look at him and let out a howl of laughter which actually caused him to bend double and slap his thigh several times. Ron Weasley followed Thomas’ gaze and when he caught sight of him standing there let out a guffaw of laughter which he made absolutely no attempt to hide. 

“Shut up you stupid boys,” Pansy snapped at them. “He looks nice.” 

This only made Ron Weasley laugh harder. He and Dean were lost now. 

The laughter was now spreading to the Servants as well, who were also staring at him. 

_Well._

_Dark and Light laughing together._

_I’m glad I could be the one to bring them together in peace._

He put his hands on his hips, forcing himself to stare around at them and meet their eyes. 

_Potter._

He hadn’t noticed Potter at first. He had been skulking behind Weasley, but now he had come out from behind him and was watching. Their eyes met and his stomach lurched practically out of his mouth. He felt his cheeks start to burn and he dropped his gaze. 

_Amortentia._

_He told Ron Weasley to his face, that I gave him Amortentia._

He felt as if his insides were shrivelling up with shame. He didn’t have any anger left. Now there was just the shame and the heavy dread weighing on him. Heavy enough to press him into the ground. Heavy enough to make him disappear forever.

“Now we have ’em both in the same room,” a voice called. “Let’s see what it’s all about, then.” 

He turned in shock, looking for the source. 

_They’re not gagged?_

_Why would they not gag them?_

It had come from behind him. He saw the source of the noise. Lovegood was walking in from the vestibule, her eyes far away as if she were watching her own private TV channel, her wand raised and Yaxley floating in mid air alongside her.

The laughter diminished a little as Lovegood floated Yaxley down the steps and wafted him over to near Dean Thomas. Thomas didn’t bother to lower him into a chair. He just left him floating there, bound at the hands and feet—but unfortunately not the mouth. 

“Look at the two of them,” Yaxley bawled. “I’d like to see another demonstration.” 

“ _Another_?” Ron Weasley blurted out. 

He pointed at Yaxley. “Would someone silence this worm?” 

Pansy elbowed him sharply in the ribs. 

_Ow._

Everyone’s eyes turned to him. He felt even more self-conscious now and was regretting his decision to take the robes off. Even the top didn’t completely meet the top of the shorts… it was meant to show the stomach. 

Ron Weasley stepped out into the middle of the room. “No,” he said. “Wait. I’ve got some questions for him.” 

“Bold of you, Weasley,” he drawled. He knew the only reason he hadn’t been bound and gagged along with everyone else was that Pansy was next to him and she was responsible for him just now. “Did you grow a spine by chance?” 

Ron Weasley’s eyes flashed. He pointed his arm at him. “ _He’s_ been spreading rumours about Harry for months. Everyone here knows what I’m talking about.” 

Yaxley grinned. “He got down on his knees and showed the Dark Lord how he rogered Harry Potter in the showers,” he said with relish. “We all watched. All of us here.” 

His eyes flickered to his father. Father hadn’t been there when it happened. Neither had Mum. Father’s face was impassive, as if he was trying not to show any emotion. 

“Shut up, you,” Ron Weasley snapped at Yaxley. “ _What_ did you do, Malfoy?” Weasley came toward him, wand pointing straight at him. 

He swallowed, hard. He had never let himself be humiliated in front of Ron Weasley.

_I would rather die._

_I would rather die than be humiliated in front of these Gryffindors._

Potter was standing right there, impassively, watching. He looked at Potter several times, nervously, licking his lips and feeling his mouth go dry, but Potter didn’t make eye contact with him. 

“You heard me,” Ron Weasley said. “What did you _do_ that involved _Harry_ in front of these _lowly scum_?” 

He swallowed. His mouth and throat were so dry his swallow made a clicking sound. He coughed. 

“Get him some water,” Dean Thomas said. “I want to hear this. This little scab has been spreading filth about Harry for months and it’s high time someone did something about it. Let’s have the truth, straight from the dragon’s mouth.” 

Pansy went behind the bar and fumbled about for a few moments before coming back with a glass of water, which he gulped. He could feel his hands shaking. She took the glass from him.

_I harmed Potter with this._

_Even if I didn’t mean to._

_My poor judgement in telling Myrtle is what caused this._

_I could never have foreseen how it would blow up._

_But I… I harmed him with this._

He took a deep breath. “They made me—act out—the rumour,” he stuttered. 

Ron Weasley crossed his arms. “What rumour?” 

His lip twisted. Weasley was going to make him say it. 

“The rumour that I,” he swallowed.

“I can’t _hear_ you,” Weasley said. 

“The rumour that I had sex with Potter in the Quidditch showers,” he said, louder. 

“ _How_ did you act it out?” Ron Weasley asked. “ _How_?” 

He closed his eyes and prayed for strength. “I just, er—” he stammered. 

_Does he really want me to—_

“Out with it, Malfoy,” Weasley snapped. “Or we’ll have your mate Yaxley here tell us.” 

“Alright—alright—” he said quickly. “I g-got on my knees and—and— _you know_ —” his face was on fire. He had never wished he could die so much as at this moment. 

“No.” Weasley said impassively. “I don’t know. Why don’t you show us?” 

He gaped in shock. 

_Show you?_

The horror must have been clear on his face because Weasley spat, “You don’t like that do you? Well how do you think it made the rest of us feel as his mates? You say _having sex_ Malfoy, but Harry would never— _never_ —” Weasley was literally spitting at this point, it was flying out of his mouth as he spluttered at him. “So you’re telling us that the Death Eaters all stood around and watched you _mime_ that you were raping my friend.” Weasley’s chest was heaving. “Is that it? _Is that it_?” He roared. 

He thought he was going to start hyperventilating. The room swam. His eyes were filling with tears. He blinked several times. “No. Yes.” 

“Which one is it? I should kill you for this,” he said. “Do you have any idea what this has done to Harry?” 

He blinked and the tears fell. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

Weasley was staring at him, beet-red in the face. “You’re _sorry_.” He shook his head. “I can’t listen to any more of these lies.” He flicked his wand toward Yaxley. “Maybe another Death Eater will tell us the truth.” 

“He gave it everything,” Yaxley gushed. “He was really _into it_.” 

Weasley shook his head. “You’re disgusting. _Both of you are disgusting._ ” 

“I knew—” he said desperately, not daring to look at Potter. “I didn’t say it really happened! I _told_ them over and over that it wasn’t true. They just—they thought it was…funny.” 

“Oh yeah, it’s right up there with torture and death as my top three sources of comedy,” Weasley spat. 

“I didn’t _have a choice_ ,” he said. “The Dark Lord told me to do it and you don’t say—” He stopped himself. “I knew it would get them off my back,” he said, hating himself for telling the truth. “They targeted me less after that. In their eyes I proved myself.” 

“I don’t think Harry should hear any more of this,” Lovegood interrupted suddenly in a tone much firmer than her usual voice. “This isn’t good for him.” 

“No,” Potter said suddenly, nearly giving him a heart attack. Potter came into the middle of the room and stood next to Weasley. He looked around the room. “Is that what all of you think?” He said. “Do you all think that Malfoy—did that to me?” 

Silence fell, but only briefly. Lovegood said almost immediately, “Of course not. I knew he was just jealous and angry.” 

“No,” Thomas muttered. “’Course not.” 

“No!” Pansy exclaimed, although she didn’t come any closer to him or anything. 

“Then _why_ has everyone been making these comments to me all the time?” Potter cast about. “It’s been nonstop.” 

Dean Thomas at least had the grace to look shamefaced. “We just thought the idea of you and Malfoy together was…. you know.” 

“No,” Potter retorted. 

“Funny,” Thomas said. “It was just kind of funny.” 

“Everyone was very angry with you, Harry,” Lovegood said bluntly. 

Potter frowned. “That doesn’t make it right.” 

They all fell silent. 

But Ron Weasley was still staring at him. “Why did you do it, Malfoy?” He asked. “Why did you spread that rumour?” 

He looked down at his trainers. They were still all smooth and shiny-looking at the front where he cast that charm to disguise them as dress shoes. “I didn’t tell Myrtle that I—I told Myrtle I—” he took a deep breath. “I _told_ Myrtle that I _wanted_ to ha—have sex with Potter in the Quidditch showers. I _told_ Myrtle that I fancied Potter. I wanted him to _want_ to…have sex with me.” 

_I made it one of my goals in life never to be humiliated by anyone ever again._

_And look where that got me._

_I couldn’t even invent this scenario in my worst nightmares._

“Why, Malfoy,” Weasley said. “I asked you why.” 

“Lovegood’s right. I was angry that Potter had left. And I was jealous of Weasley. His girlfriend Weasley,” he said quickly. “I…” he stared at his feet. “I’m…” he raised his head and forced himself to look at Potter. “I like you,” he said, meeting Potter’s eyes. “I already told you that.”

He heard several audible gasps from around the room. 

He crossed his arms. “What I did was… stupid.” he bit his lip. “I knew Myrtle was the wrong person to tell. I think some part of me…” he cleared his throat. “Some part of me wanted it to get back to you. I knew how embarrassing you would find the idea of me, er,” he knew he was blushing deeply. “Me having sex with you. I knew you found me… repulsive. But I was so angry at you. I just wanted you to… I wanted to hurt you because I felt like you’d hurt me.” 

Potter stared at the carpet. “But Malfoy,” he said. “We didn’t even barely _know each other_ at Hogwarts.” 

He nodded in a resigned way and looked away. 

_Yeah, well._

_You’ve always been one of the biggest parts of my life._

_But you don’t know that and you never will._

_You’ll never understand the big picture, I suppose._

“That was wrong,” he whispered, then forced himself to raise his voice. “I’m sorry. For what I did and for… the consequences.” 

“You want to know what they did right in front of me?”Yaxley growled. He was clearly enjoying this spectacle. "Let me  _tell_ you what I saw the two of them do just now in that room--"

“No,” Ron Weasley snapped, and flicked his wand at Yaxley, who said nothing more. “Alright, Malfoy, we’ve heard your side of it,” he said. “Now Harry,” he turned to Potter, and pointed his wand back at him while still looking at Potter. “Did Draco Malfoy force you to take Amortentia potion so you would become attracted to him?” 

Potter’s face took on a sullen look. He looked at Potter’s expression and felt the dark, heavy dread pressing on him. 

Weasley kept talking. “Did Draco Malfoy Imperius you into taking Amortentia? Did he torture you until you agreed to take Amortentia?” 

Potter glanced at him. “No,” he said. “To all of them.” Potter ran his hand through his hair and looked at him, right in the eyes. “Your idea of love is sickening,” he said. “You think you’re—in love with me but everything you’ve said and done tells me the opposite. It’s not love. I don’t think you can love. I don’t think you can at all.” 

_Oh._

_Oh, I see._

_I see._

He turned away and burst into tears. 


	95. You Need Them To See You

**Harry**

Malfoy turned around and stood there for a few moments, hunched over, his top riding up and exposing pale skin at the base of his back. 

“Right,” Ron said, clapping him on the shoulder, but addressing the room. “Luna, finish searching the ground floor. Dean, take the upstairs.” 

“I’ll keep watch over the prisoners.” Ron’s chest was practically puffed out with pride. 

Dean and Luna left the room and disappeared to their separate assignments.

“Pansy, you can help Dean,” Ron said. “But before you go, tie Malfoy up.” 

Pansy turned to him in sheer outrage. She gestured at Malfoy, who seemed to be crying. “He’s an informer! He’s on _our_ side now.”

Ron frowned. “We’ve seen no evidence of that.” Ron turned to him. “Have we, Harry?” 

 _Is he an informer?_  

 _He hasn’t told_ me _much._

_He spends too much time picking out new outfits and combing his hair._

Actually, he had never seen Malfoy comb his hair. Mustn’t he need to comb it quite a lot, what with it being so fine and straight?

_That’s the most ridiculous thought you’ve ever had._

He didn’t look at Malfoy, who had turned back around and seemed to have stopped crying, at least for the moment. He was standing very straight and staring off into the distance with a steely look in his eye, or so it seemed to him. 

_Stop looking._

“Harry?” Ron said. 

_Is he an informer?_

_He led me here…_

No, wait. Malfoy hadn’t led him here. He’d _tricked_ Malfoy into showing him where this house was located, purely through his own cleverness. Malfoy had done fuck all to get him here. 

 _What_ has _Malfoy done for me?_

_I mean, let’s look at this rationally._

_Like Hermione would._

_He took me to Malfoy Manor, where Lucius Malfoy tried to attack me. He used a Time Turner to take me every which way through time until I was completely confused._

_He stalled for time, keeping me in the past so I couldn’t reach the Death Eaters. He only agreed to take me back to the present when I got so angry at his delays that I lost control and almost set him on fire. He took me to Grimmauld Place, whereupon he_ killed my House Elf _and claimed the house—my house—for his bloody_ mother. 

_Then he got me into an automobile crash which broke my arm. He took me to a Muggle hospital, which no sane wizard would do, which gave me a panic attack._

_He took me on an_ airplane _when I could easily have sent the whole thing up in flames. Then as soon as we got here instead of actually helping me out, he sent me back to the DA._

Nothing Malfoy had done had helped him to get any closer to the Death Eaters. Nothing—absolutely nothing. 

_He knew I was ill but he told me he fancied me, which obviously was not a good idea with a person who is having panic attacks. What about Lucius Malfoy and Kazimir Dolohov? Did he set that up? Trying to make me think gay thoughts._

It was all so Malfoy could hold his hands up and say, _Oh, no, of course I didn’t give Potter Amortentia. I would never do such a thing. I just prance around and flip my hair and make big doe eyes at him all day long. And show him memories and constantly tell him I want to have sex with him over and over again but_ I _didn’t do anything,_ he _just started to be gay all on his own and it’s nothing to do with_ me, _oh no._

He scowled. 

“Harry?” Ron said. 

“No,” he said. “He’s not an informer. He’s just your regular bog standard Death Eater. Your regular bog standard _Slytherin_ , in fact,” he said. “He’s vain, petty, cruel and manipulative. He told me he was going to protect my life but instead he ended up putting me in even more danger.” 

“Watch what you’re saying about Slytherins,” Pansy Parkinson snapped. She had her arm around Malfoy now. 

He frowned and did a rather good impression of a Malfoy drawl. “Why? Trying to protect your _boyfriend_?” 

Pansy stared back at him. “Draco is my friend,” she said. “He’s made mistakes but guess what Potter? _No-one’s perfect_. I would take a very hard look at your own pot before you go calling the kettle black. Or just read a newspaper. And for your information, my _girlfriend_ is Millicent Bulstrode.” 

He could feel his stomach bubbling with hot, horrible guilt. “Are you sure about that?” He said. “Millicent Bulstrode always looked more like a mountain troll to me. A _male_ mountain troll.” 

Pansy’s eyes flew wide open in surprise and then quickly mounting anger. “Take that back!” She hissed. 

Ron grabbed his upper arm and dragged him out of the room so fast he nearly tripped and fell. Ron steered him outside into a small side corridor with a few doors leading off it. “What are you playing at?” Ron looked furious. 

He rolled his eyes. “Ron, don’t believe her lies.” 

Ron put his hands on his shoulders. “Pansy Parkinson is a member of Dumbledore’s Army, Harry. Now you are going to go back in there and apologise to her for what you said about Millicent Bulstrode.”  

He smirked. “It’s true, though.” 

Ron glared at him. “Yeah, so Millicent is—whatever. Great. So what?” 

He narrowed his eyes at Ron. “You’re defending her over _me_?” 

Ron was breathing through his nose like an angry bull. “I know what this is about,” he said. “This is about you and me.” 

If he could, he would have crossed his arms. But because one of them was bound in a sling, he settled for doing nothing. “There’s no you and me, Ron. You betrayed me for the final time. That’s it. I’ve given you a thousand chances by this point. But every time I turn my back there you are standing behind me with a knife.” 

Ron was dull red. “You slept with Malfoy, didn’t you?” 

He stared in outrage. “No!” 

Ron licked his lips. “You fancy him,” Ron said. “I can tell. Don’t try and lie, Harry. I saw you two. I’m going to go home and find a brain bleaching potion to try and unsee it, but I know what I saw.” Ron’s chest was heaving. “You’re sleeping with the enemy, Harry.” 

“I’m not _sleeping with him_!” He hissed. 

“He just told a room full of people how he manipulated Moaning Myrtle into telling everyone that he _fucked_ you, Harry,” Ron seemed to be roaring at whisper volume. “And you had no response. None. Nothing. Your face was like a roll of blank parchment.” 

He looked away.

“He _told you_ _already_ ,” Ron’s voice went up several octaves in disbelief. “He told you that already, didn’t he?” 

He felt a strange and quiet sense of triumph as he said, “He showed me his memory of it.” 

Ron’s eyes boggled. “He _showed you the memory_?” 

He nodded, looked Ron in the eye. 

“And you,” Ron said. “Did what—?” 

He shrugged. 

“You hit him in the face,” Ron said. “Right? Harry? Please tell me that’s what you did. You hit him with the nastiest curse you could think of. Right?” 

He shrugged. 

Ron took hold of his upper arms. “Harry, when a Death Eater tells you he started a rumour about raping you, you do not _hang about to find out what he’ll do next_.” 

“Ron,” he said, pushing Ron’s arms away. “He did not _want to rape me_.” 

Ron stared at him. “Oh Merlin,” he said. “I feel sick. No, I’m serious, Harry. I need the sick bucket. This has gone beyond. When that—” he pointed in the direction of the games room. “When someone tells you that, you don’t _take it as a compliment, Harry_! Now you’re _defending him_? Two minutes ago you told him to his face he was incapable of love! Or was that just part of an ongoing lovers’ spat?” 

He glowered. “I’m not his lover.” 

“You’re _acting_ like you are, Harry,” Ron said, nearly laughing in what seemed to be sheer disbelief. “You’re _jealous,_ you’re _sulking_.” Ron looked like he was about to get on his knees and plead. “Look, Harry, I _get_ it. He _looks_ like a girl. He’s got a—a pretty face,” Ron said with difficulty. “And kind of long hair and he _dresses_ like a girl. I can see where you’re getting confused.” 

“He’s not a girl.” 

“Yeah!” Ron whisper-screamed. “This is the point of this whole conversation! I walk in on you about to give Malfoy one up the—”

“I was not,” he muttered, his face getting hot. 

“Oh, no,” Ron said. “I’m sure you were just checking him over for Gnargle bites, right? Harry, mate, you’ve got me _worried._ ” Ron ran his hands over his face. “This is fucked up. This is like the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard of.” 

He looked at Ron and narrowed his eyes. “What did you expect?” He said. “You kicked me out on the street, remember? Not once, not twice, but _three_ times. And now you’re surprised that I’m with Malfoy?” 

Ron looked at him in utter outrage. " _What_? You're blaming  _me_ for the fact that-- that _you_ like Malfoy? You said--you’re _with_ Malfoy,” Ron said. “Are you saying you’re officially a couple?” 

“You _told_ me to get over Ginny,” he pointed out, quite reasonably, he felt. 

Ron raised his hands as if he wanted to throttle him. “Get over Ginny, yeah. Not _get_ your leg _over_ with Malfoy!”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re missing the point, Weasley,” he drawled, and allowed a smirk to curl his upper lip. 

Ron stared at him and then just started backing away, holding his hands up. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re not Harry Potter. You’re not the Harry Potter I know. My best friend? He’s gone.” Ron turned back round and stared walking away. 

He watched him go. 

_Yeah._

_And fuck you too._

Ron stopped, turned around, and came back toward him. “I’m sorry to have to do this, Harry,” he said, and then Ron muttered the words of some spell and ropes appeared and bound his hands at the wrist and his feet at the ankles. 

_You bastard._

_You…_ bastard. 

“You didn’t have to set that fire,” Ron muttered, prodding him in the shoulder as if to make him walk. “You could have killed someone. Again. I told you I would get you out. You didn’t have to act like you were breaking out of Azkaban or something.” 

His feet were bound, though, so he couldn’t walk. He just stood there. “How did you tell the others?” he asked.

Ron stopped. “What?” 

“This was supposed to be just the two of us,” he said. 

Ron looked at him. “I never said that.” 

He stared at Ron. “You asked me for _help_. You said you wanted to be leadership. I led you to this house. Then you turn around and tell everyone else? How? With those galleons Hermione made?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, pulling a shiny galleon out of his pocket. “We use them all the time. George and—Fred—improved them so you could send messages back and forth more quickly. They’re dead useful.” 

_He’s not listening._

_He’s ignoring what I’m trying to say._  

 _That he stabbed me in the back_ again. 

“Did you think it was going to be just me and you?” Ron said, looking at him with understanding dawning in his eyes. “You… thought we were just going to toddle off and do this all on our own? You thought you could get the glory all to yourself?” 

“And you,” he said reasonably. “You _said_ you needed to get your credibility back.” 

Ron gazed at him. “See, Harry. This is exactly what Dumbledore’s Army _doesn’t_ do. We work together as a team. We don’t leave people in the dark and then go gallivanting off to be a hero. Twenty heads are better than one, Harry. Fifty heads are better than one. And a team of people can achieve things that one or two people could never manage.” 

“You’ve become so two-faced,” he spat. “You wanted to go behind Ginny’s back to get me out of that house so I could find where the Death Eaters were for you. Then you turn around and start talking about teamwork and how loyal you are to the DA.” 

Ron’s face was mottled red. “Ginny—”

“You don’t really support her,” he said. “You think she’s just as bossy and unbearable as I do. Now she's got this whole kumbaya thing going on, all Gryffindors and Slytherins are best mates, she's won over every warm-blooded creature in Hogwarts and beyond apparently. She's changed her spots hasn't she? Isn't she the one who came up with the name 'Loony' for Luna in fifth year? Everyone's acting like she's some kind of saint, but I've got the measure of her now," he was breathing fast. "The way she's treating me now, it's like she acted toward Fleur. She was a real  _bitch_ toward Fleur--"

Ron pinched his lips shut. Then he said, “Don’t talk about my sister like that.” 

Ginny... Ginny had changed, he knew that. But now that he started to think back... He remembered she and Hermione had been arguing after he'd cursed Malfoy with  _Sectumsempra_. Hermione disapproved of his using the spell, whereas Ginny argued it was justified because Malfoy was going to use an Unforgivable. Then Ginny had shut Hermione up with a mean comment about Hermione embarrassing herself not knowing anything about Quidditch. As if Ginny couldn't take the fact that Hermione was disagreeing with her opinion, she had to win the argument at any cost. 

Not only that, Ginny had cursed and hexed people willingly.

_Oh,_ _because you never cursed anyone willingly?_

Like at the end of fifth year, on the train back to London, when he and the DA had outnumbered Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle and cursed them so badly they ended up unrecognisable. He actually felt a spasm of guilt, remembering that. They must have needed Healing after that. Maybe quite a lot of Healing. He thought of Malfoy in that hotel room in the morning, the light gentle on his face, arguing over Slytherin House. None of them had faced any consequences after cursing Malfoy and his friends. But if three Slytherins had done the same thing, he couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore wouldn't have punished them somehow.

_I'm sure he would have._

_And serve them right._

_I'm not going to change my mind about that, no matter what Malfoy says_

But he was right about Ginny. For years he had seen her treat others in ways that were nasty, spiteful, manipulative and downright bullying, but because he hadn't been the target of her behaviour, he hadn't given it much thought. She'd told him point blank that she only went with Neville to the Yule Ball because she wouldn't have been able to go any other way. She'd boasted to him about hexing Zacharias Smith because he annoyed her. She'd been nice to Luna to her face while calling her "Loony" behind her back. 

_She hasn't changed at all._

_Jesus Christ, I can't believe it took me this long to see it._

_She's the same old Gin._

And she had only been interested in him while his stock was high. The moment she saw a chance to take his place, she had stepped in without a second thought. 

_Or, the moment you stopped giving her the attention she demanded_

_You broke up with her_

_That's got to be against the rules in Ginnyland_

_Ginny breaks up with people, not the other way around_

He had crossed Ginny, that's what it was. And just like anyone else who had crossed her, he had to be punished as a result. Ginny had probably envisioned what the high life would be like, as the girlfriend of the great Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world and the Chosen One who slayed You-Know-Who. She saw herself becoming a person of importance that way. 

_And then I denied her that, by breaking up with her_

_Well, fuck_

He had been so attracted to her. That was the thing. The physical attraction had been like a literal creature trying to tear him apart. The chest monster, his old mate. And--and yes, Ginny was fit, extremely, but...

_I liked that she was popular, and she liked me_

_Other blokes wanted her, but_ I  _got her. I liked that_

Being popular meant being on top. It meant keeping others down, so you could be on top. Give them an inch, they might take a mile. He'd liked that Ginny was popular, and it had reassured him that he was popular, too. Because he had been unpopular. He knew what that felt like. And he had never, ever wanted to be in that position again. To be inferior, laughed at, different, disliked, unloved. To be Harry Dursley again.

_You were unkind to the Creevey brothers. Admit it_

_And Luna, and Neville. You were_

_And Dobby_

_You were embarrassed by them, the lot of them_

 

He shuddered, and a chill went through his body, of pure shame at himself.

In a weird way, he felt as if he'd been lucky to escape with as little contact with her as he'd managed, so far. He wouldn't wish any more time with Ginny on his worst enemy. Well, that was Malfoy, according to the old Hogwarts way of thinking, before Voldemort came back. He felt a strange desire to see Malfoy take Ginny on. Malfoy's sharp wit was a match for Ginny any day. Fur would fly, alright.

Ron pointed his wand at him, muttered a spell and floated him into the air. “You’re under arrest,” Ron said. “By order of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic.” 

If there was anything more embarrassing than being bound and gagged in front of his peers, it was being bound and gagged by his best friend and floated into a room full of Death Eaters. Ron walked ahead of him, letting him trail behind. He ducked to avoid cracking his forehead on the lintel. He could see the Death Eaters lined up on the sofas. There were one or two he didn’t recognise who were lying on the floor, as if the DA had been too lazy to pick them up and move them after restraining them.

_Oh god._

_I never thought it would come to this._

_Never in my worst nightmares._

He could just see how their faces would contort into laughter at the sight of him, just as they had when they saw Malfoy walk into the room in his little outfit. 

_So I’m as big a laughingstock as Malfoy now._

_I guess Malfoy got his wish._

But before anyone could see him—he was fairly certain, they all seemed to be looking in the other direction, toward the french windows he had noticed on the other side of the room—Ron stopped, turned around and grabbed him by his good arm and pulled him away from the games room and back down the corridor where they’d been arguing. Ron didn’t say anything, he just left him hanging there in midair and walked away, disappearing from sight. 

_Okay._

_He wanted to spare me the embarrassment, I guess._

But then he had a thought. 

_No._

_He wants to save the_ Light _from embarrassment._

_So the Death Eaters don’t have the satisfaction of seeing the Chosen One brought so low…_

_Wait._

_What did you just say?_

He had said ‘the Light’. That was Malfoy’s weird term for referring to—

_What does it refer to?_

He wasn’t sure. Did it refer to the Order of the Phoenix? And now to Dumbledore’s Army? 

_Why not just call them by their names, though…?_

He hung there in mid air. 

_So I guess this is it._

The Death Eaters had been captured, just not by him. _He_ had been arrested, as Shacklebolt wanted. 

_So what are we waiting for?_

He realised that they must be waiting. If Ron, Dean, Luna and Pansy had urgent orders to carry out, Ron wouldn’t have started interrogating Malfoy. 

_I thought he was defending me._

_Sticking up for me._

He had really thought Ron was trying to redeem himself for his earlier betrayals when Ron had started laying into Malfoy. 

_He did the right thing._

_He was sticking up for me._

But then Ron had gone and tied him up like this…  

_I just don’t…_

He felt as if he didn’t know Ron any more. His trust in Ron had been fractured when Ron left him and Hermione while they were camping, but now it was shattered. 

 _Ron_ isn’t _loyal to you any more._

_Remember?_

_He’s loyal to the DA now._

He wished Hermione were here. He really, really wished Hermione were here. But Hermione hated him, too, now. 

_And Hermione’s gone to be a Muggle in Australia._

_So…_

_That’s it, isn’t it?_

Malfoy’s face was in his mind’s eye. Malfoy’s voice when he’d tried to explain about the Myrtle situation. Malfoy’s eyes looking into his. He felt a shiver go down his spine. He could feel Malfoy’s lips on his, a gentle touch—

_Don’t let that fool you._

_If you’ve learned anything this week, it’s that love is a lie._

It was. It was just people trying to control other people, trying to get things they wanted, trying to get people to do things they wanted them to do. 

_Ginny didn't love me._

_She just wanted to control me._

_It’s all about control._

Malfoy had found a way to control him, a way to make him do whatever Malfoy wanted him to do. Malfoy could make him as helpless as a baby, as vulnerable as a snail without a shell.

_That was just the Amortentia._

He felt that awful feeling within him again. The raw feeling which Malfoy stoked with his touch. 

_It’s all just Amortentia._

_It will pass soon._

_Malfoy can’t control you._

The worst thing about that feeling was that he wanted more of it. It hurt, but it was also sweet and addictive and it felt good. 

_That’s just… you know._

_Being horny. Of course I am. That’s normal._

But it didn’t feel like just being horny. He knew what that felt like. And yes… Malfoy turned him on. But it felt like something else. It felt like Malfoy could reach into his soul and take what he found there and not care, still think of him just the same and—

_Have you ever been in love, Harry?_

_Then you know what it’s like, to give another person everything._

_To give them everything of yourself, not holding anything back._

_Because you need them to see you, see all of you, see everything._

No. No, it was all wrong. Neville was wrong. He didn’t want anyone to see inside him. He didn’t want anyone to see everything. _He_ didn’t want to see it, so there was no way he was going to let anyone else see it.   
****

_That’s not—_

_Who would do that?_

_It’s way too scary._

Anything that made you feel that scared was a clear sign it should be left alone, ignored and you should just get on with your life. He didn’t want to think about the way hischest started to hurt when he kissed Malfoy, how his stomach turned to pounding with something which might be elation, but was also real, run-for-your-life terror. 

_This is why Amortentia is an illegal potion._

_It’s very powerful._

Ron had practically gone barmy when he’d taken that Romilda Vane potion. Yes, it had been funny, but it had also been quite frightening to see Ron lose control like that. 

_I can’t lose control._

_I have to remain in control._

_I_ am _in control._

He’d never had any of these problems with Cho or Ginny, but then no-one had been giving him bottles of Amortentia with Cho and Ginny. Those were just normal relationships, without disturbing emotions like fear and pain. 

 _Those were_ normal _relationships._

He hadn’t had to _talk_ to them, either, which was one of the most annoying things about Malfoy. He could _talk_ for England. Cho he had barely spoken to more than once or twice, and with Ginny they were always in a group of people and he never had to worry about what they were going to talk about. 

 _Relationships should be_ nice. 

_You know, pleasant._

Relationships definitely shouldn’t stir up all kinds of emotions from the depths of your soul. That was just asking for trouble. Really. He could see what Ron meant about he and Malfoy being fucked up. It _was_ fucked up that Malfoy made him feel all these things. 

_Malfoy gave you a bottle of Amortentia._

_That’s the cause of all this._

_Don’t read any deeper into it._

Ron had been so horrified that he would snog Malfoy, as if he couldn’t do whatever he wanted. He didn’t care if he was gay, or whatever. It didn’t really matter _now_ , anyway, did it? He could do whatever he wanted with Malfoy. He could have sex with Malfoy if he wanted. Ron was already convinced he had done anyway. 

_Malfoy is fit._

_He wants to have sex with me._

_So maybe I will._

_I can do whatever I want._

Malfoy had been humiliated by that scene in the games room. He could tell. He could _tell_ that it was embarrassing for him to say all of that to a room full of Death Eaters and Dumbledore’s Army. 

_I felt bad for him…_

No, he hadn’t. Malfoy deserved it. 

_But I saw the memory… I know what really happened…_

Since when did he care what Malfoy felt? He didn’t. Nothing would change that. Not even Amortentia. 

_I’m going to have sex with him._

It wasn’t anything to do with emotions. He thought Malfoy was fit, and that was what he wanted to do. So he was going to do it. 

_Er… Harry?_

_When, exactly?_

_I don’t know if you noticed this, but…_

_You were just arrested. Again. Along with a pack of Death Eaters._

_When, exactly, were you planning to have sex with Malfoy?_

_Azkaban, of course. I doubt there will be much else to do there._

In all seriousness, though. It was over. The Death Eaters had been captured. 

_I assume Neville and Ginny are on their way up here._

There wasn’t going to be any more time to hang around with Malfoy and… talk to him. Not that… he wanted to. Not that… he had been doing that. 

_I just think he’s fit, that’s all._

_I’m almost eighteen._

_I must be the only Hogwarts leaver who’s still a virgin._

Sex wasn’t a big deal. He had probably been taking it far too seriously. He needed to be more like… 

_More like Ginny?_

He needed to stop thinking about this. It was pointless to think too much about it. He was just going to have sex with Malfoy the next chance he got, and if that was in prison, well, so be it. 

_Why is this taking so long?_

It seemed to him that this should be finished by now. Surely the longer they hung around, waiting for Neville and Ginny to arrive or whatever they were waiting for, the higher the chance that something would go wrong. 

_Kazimir Dolohov said there’s no way back to England from Dubrovnik._

_He said Dolohov fixed it that way._

He frowned. Ron hadn’t told him anything about that, but that shouldn’t surprise him. So maybe Dumbledore’s Army were stuck, waiting for a Portkey or just trying to figure out how to get the Death Eaters back to England? 

_BANG_

His heart leapt into his throat as all of a sudden, pitch darkness descended and he couldn’t see a thing. He heart shouting, running footsteps, but he was immobile, hanging in the air, couldn’t see his hand before his face if he had been able to raise it, and he was totally helpless. He thrashed against his bonds, but he was like Nagini slithering around in that bubble Voldemort had made for her. 

Then he felt a touch brush past him. He froze, not knowing if it was friend or foe. Then he felt a hand on his arm. 

_Malfoy_

Malfoy’s touch seemed as familiar as his own. He felt himself being pulled down like a balloon on a string, and then that delicate whisper crept into his ear again. “Do you want to come with me?” A shiver trembled the fine hairs in his ear and travelled all the way down his body, making his breath shudder. 

_Malfoy’s breaking out._

_Malfoy’s escaping._

Malfoy seemed to realise he couldn’t speak and whispered a spell and his bonds fell away and his lips unsealed themselves. He dropped out of the air suddenly and landed awkwardly on the floor. Malfoy steadied him. 

“Yeah,” he said, and Malfoy found his hand in the darkness. 

He felt Malfoy’s lips on his ear again. “I have the Hand of Glory,” he whispered. “I can see. Just follow.” 

Malfoy yanked his arm and they were running. He was running through the pitch dark, holding on to Malfoy’s hand, sure that at any moment he was going to trip and fall on something unseen on the floor. Then the darkness took on a different quality—Malfoy had thrown open the front door and he could see again. Night had long since fallen outside but there were large lamps burning along the top of the high wall which bordered the property. Malfoy had let go of his hand and was running lightly and swiftly down the steps which led up to the front door. He followed Malfoy along the front of the house and then Malfoy ducked around the corner and disappeared. He sped up, sprinting headlong, trying to catch up. 

The house was surrounded by a manicured lawn of fine, short green grass and this continued around the side of the house, along with some herbaceous borders and trees clipped into the shapes of different magical beasts. Malfoy was sprinting as fast as he could and he did the same. When Malfoy finally reached the far edge of the house, he paused, chest heaving, flattening himself against the wall and looking carefully around the corner, then waiting. He caught up to Malfoy and pressed himself against the wall.

“Almost,” Malfoy breathed. His hair was in his eyes, he was glowing with exercise, and it all made Malfoy look about as good as he had ever seen him. 

He pushed himself off the wall, took Malfoy’s face in his hands and kissed him. 

Malfoy pushed him off so hard he stumbled and without his left arm to balance him he fell on his arse in the grass. 

_What?_

Malfoy stared down at him and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How very dare you,” he breathed, his eyes alight, blazing silver. Malfoy flattened himself against the wall of the mansion again. “Bastard,” he muttered, then peered around the wall again. “Okay, come on,” he said, his body poised for flight. “Potter.” 

He was brushing grass off his hand. “Okay,” he muttered. His face was hot with embarrassment. 

“Now,” Malfoy said, and launched himself around the corner of the house. 

He was right behind. The scene unfolded before his eyes with a surreal quality because of the speed he was running at and he was also trying to figure out what was going on at the same time as he was keeping an eye on Malfoy and trying to follow him. They had come out behind the house next to a large terrace which was bordered by a waist-high ornamental wall made out of curlicues. On the terrace was a table with the remains of a meal and many, many bottles of wine and spirits. Dolohov, wearing swimming trunks, was sprinting across the grass toward a swimming pool which sat, looking very new and as if it had just been installed, in the back garden. Malfoy was also running toward the swimming pool. He followed. As he got closer he saw that the water in the pool was churning around and around, spinning and forming an enormous whirlpool, a maelstrom which was sucking down into the depths of the pool. 

_Oh jesus christ._

He watched as Dolohov took a running leap and dove headfirst into the centre of the maelstrom and disappeared from sight. 

_What on earth is that?_

Malfoy was nearly at the edge of the pool. He paused to rip off his trainers and then pointed his wand at himself and cast a charm which encapsulated his head in a transparent bubble. 

_Krum used that at the Tri-Wizard Tournament…. no, wait… Cedric did…_

He waved his arm at Malfoy, caught his eye and pointed at himself. 

_I have no idea how to do that charm._

_And I don’t see any gillyweed lying around here._

Malfoy cast the charm and he was seeing the world, slightly distorted, from inside a transparent sphere in which his breathing sounded loud in his ears. He watched Mafloy take a running jump and dive elegantly into the maelstrom. He glanced back at the house. Behind the sliding glass doors, he could see into the games room. He saw Ron standing in the middle of the room, his face contorted in rage as he pointed outside at—

_He’s pointing at me._

That was the last thing he saw before he jumped into the swimming pool, feet-first, and was sucked down by the whirlpool into god knows where. 

_Why did I do that?_

He asked himself as the blue waters closed over his head. 

_Why did I go with Malfoy?_


	96. Protect Me

**Draco**

The waters closed over his head and he dove straight into the centre of the whirlpool, straight to the bottom of the pool, and then further, farther, deeper, far deeper than it was possible for the swimming pool to be, the water got very cold, and it was much darker. 

 _Well, I didn’t expect_ that. 

He didn’t know if Potter was behind him. He didn’t know why he had gone to get Potter. He probably shouldn’t have. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. Maybe Potter wanted another option. Maybe Potter wanted another choice. He, for one, was not about to sit around and wait obediently for a bunch of sanctimonious wizards and witches from the Ministry of Magic to put him in shackles and lock him up in a stone fortress for nineteen years. 

_I want to live_

_I want to be in the sun_

_I want to see things and people_

_I want to dance and drink until I fall down_

_I want to do what I want_

_And I don’t care_

_I don’t care_

He was deep under the ocean. He didn’t know how deep. It frightened him at first. His downward dive had turned into an upward dive and now he was rising rapidly toward the surface which he could see above him, barely distinguishable except for the fact he was in darkness and it was lighter up there. He was still wearing his socks and it was making it harder to swim. He brought his arms down and slowed down, no longer cutting through the water like a blade. He took his socks off one by one and looked for Potter. 

_There he is._

Potter must not have dove headfirst, because he was quite a bit below him, thrashing around and turning in the water. There wasn’t much light, just enough to let him see Potter’s outline. He fumbled for his wand, which was stuck in his waistband, and touching it, managed to cast a golden Lumos which made the water around him turn milky with tiny things floating in it.

_Is he alright?_

He swam down and as he did, remembered that Potter had a broken arm in a sling and also, Potter was still wearing his trainers. Potter saw him and went still, floating, looking at him as if Potter was a sailor and he was a mermaid come to save him and kiss air into him so he wouldn’t drown.

_Stop it_

He reached for Potter’s foot. He gave it. He didn’t bother trying to undo the waterlogged laces, just tore off the trainer and let it fall into the depths. He watched as it sank into the depths of the sea and disappeared. He shivered with fear. The strangeness of the situation almost overwhelmed him. He took Potter’s sock off. Potter’s foot was cold in his hands. He let go of Potter’s foot and Potter gave him his other foot. Potter was staring at him. He couldn’t look away from Potter’s eyes. They were totally alone in the depths of the sea, floating like babies in the womb. He pulled Potter’s shoe off and they both watched it sink into the darkness, gone forever. He looked at Potter again as he took off his sock, pulled it over his foot and it fell into the ocean and was gone, too. 

He and Potter were still looking at each other as he found Potter’s hand and just kept looking at him. They had begun to rise slowly, he realised.

_Buoyant creatures, wizards._

They were rising slowly and Potter reached out and his fingers touched the bubble around his head, as if Potter wanted to touch his face. He was shivering in the cold sea. He blinked, and still couldn’t look away from Potter. Potter’s hand touched his shoulder, his chest, his waist, and Potter pulled them together under the water, so their bubbleheads touched, bounced against each other. The surface of the ocean was rushing rapidly toward them now. 

The bubble burst when his head burst into the air and he saw Potter’s had as well. Potter had let go of him as they both needed to focus on swimming. He cast about, trying to figure out where he was. He could see water, and a dark blue sky covered in stars.

_Please don’t tell me we’re in the middle of the ocean._

_And Dolohov’s just jetted off in a boat he had waiting here specially for him._

“Look,” Potter said. Potter wasn’t going to be able to swim properly with that arm bound. 

He turned and almost cried with relief. He should have realised there was far too much light for them to be in the middle of nowhere. Looming above them were the city walls of Dubrovnik’s Old Town, solid and ancient and reassuring. Boulders tumbled into the crashing surf and above them, he could see a cafe in the rocky wall, with tables laid out on successive tiers of narrow ledges. 

“I’ve been there,” Potter said. “It’s a wizarding bar.” 

He swam for the rocks and within two or three strokes he was able to clamber onto one of them. He turned and waited to grab Potter, who was also being washed in by the tide, and Potter held out his hand and he pulled Potter onto the rock with him. He climbed higher, away from the waves, under an overhang and out of sight of the cafe above. If it was a wizarding cafe, he didn’t want to announce their arrival before he could take stock of the situation. 

Potter sat next to him, panting. 

“I doubt anyone saw us,” he said. “It’s too dark.” 

Potter’s hand was reaching for him. 

_I don’t think so._

He pushed it away and didn’t look at Potter. If he allowed himself to start thinking about it, he was going to start feeling how much his chest ached. He was going to start feeling what an idiot he had been. He was going to start thinking about how his heart was broken and if he did that… He swallowed and fixed on a distant point, some rocks out in the sea which waves were breaking on. “My father went in first,” he said. “With Fenrir Greyback.” 

“What?” Potter gasped. 

He nodded, watching the spray off the rocks, how it flew high up into the air, how it fanned out through the air rather beautifully. Maybe he should become a droplet of sea water. Then he would have nothing to worry about at all. 

“There’s nothing to be done,” he said. “Look at the moon.” It was shining above the sea, round and full and pearly-white. 

He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t see anyone. They were the only ones here. 

“Malfoy…” Potter said quietly, putting his hand on his arm. 

He flung it off and turned on Potter. “Don’t _fucking_ touch me, Potter, got that?” He scrambled away onto the rocks to climb up to the cafe. He didn’t even care that Potter would have trouble walking on those rocks with just one arm for balance. He turned back to Potter. “You don’t touch me. The next time you try it, I’ll knock your teeth out.” He turned and started picking his way across the rocks. 

He had just climbed across a particularly large boulder and was almost at the point where he could reach the ledge of the wizarding cafe, when he spotted a small cove, nearly hidden, on the other side of the rocks. And in the bright lights which shone out from the ancient city walls across the sea, the sand of the cove was illuminated. 

_Blood._

His heart lurched. 

_Hecate no._

_No!_

He kept walking, and every step brought more of the beach into sight. There was more blood, and then—

_Hecate wept._

He nearly fainted. He forced himself to get down the rocks and onto the beach. “Dad!” He shouted. “Dad! _Father_! _Father_!” He waded into the surf, up to his chest, his eyes searching the water, searching everywhere in terror. “ _Father_!” Father wasn’t there. Not in the water. Not on the rocks. He got out, water gushing down his body, and climbed back onto the rocks, where Potter was standing, watching him silently. 

He climbed toward the wizarding cafe, leaving behind him on the bloody sand of the cove the dead, waterlogged body of Fenrir Greyback. 

*

_He’s still following me._

He rounded another corner and marched down another narrow cobblestoned street. The Old Town was quiet now, sleeping. There were lights burning in the windows of the little houses, but very few Muggles out and about in the streets. The restaurants were closed. 

He glanced behind him. Potter was still following him doggedly, silently. 

He came to a stop and crouched down on the cobbles, unable to go on. 

_I’ve been around the entire town twice._

_No sign of him._

He stood up. He was back by the wizarding cafe. Two large circles and innumerable wanderings within it had taken hours. He was exhausted. Potter had come to a stop nearby and was just standing there. 

“Drink?” Potter suggested. 

He looked at him in surprise. “Er.” Actually, he could do with a drink. 

_That’s actually a really good idea._

“Just down here,” Potter said.

He followed Potter down another narrow alley. Potter stopped at a door which didn’t look that much like a place where you’d get a drink, until Potter pushed the door open and the light from a disco ball fell across Potter’s t-shirt and face. 

_Ah._

He followed Potter inside and realised he was in a gay bar. _The_ gay bar. The one where Father had found Kazimir Dolohov and where Potter had, for some reason, been as well and had seen them. 

He slumped wearily toward one of the booths, which were, unusually, round, with a round table in the middle, and sat down in it, putting his head in his hands. Potter sat down opposite him. “What do you want?” 

He shook his head. “Something strong.” 

“Cuba Libre?” Potter suggested. 

He peered at him. “How do you know what a Cuba Libre is?” 

Potter shrugged. “I’m fast learner.” 

An older man approached the table. “We have seen you before,” he said with a kind smile. 

He smiled back. 

_He seems nice._

“Er,” Potter said. “Yeah, I was here the other night.” 

He glanced at Potter. He found it strange Potter would even admit that. 

“And you,” the barman turned to him and smiled. “Welcome back.” 

He smiled. “That was my father,” he said in Croatian. “People get us mixed up all the time.” 

The barman looked absolutely gobsmacked. “You speak Croatian!” He said in delight. “And so well. This is fantastic.” 

“Have you seen my father tonight?” He asked. “I’m looking for him.”

The barman shook his head. “No, not since that night.” 

He sighed. “Thanks anyway.” 

The barman seemed like such a nice old man. It made him feel sad just to talk to him. Sometimes really kind people made him cry more than horrible, nasty people did. 

He stared at the table, not looking at Potter. 

“Do you want to explore outside the Old Town?” Potter asked. “We could go out into the Muggle part.” 

He sighed. “No. There’s no point. I’ll never find him.” 

The barman returned with two sweating glasses which he placed on dogeared coasters in front of them. “Hvala,” Potter said to him, and the barman looked at him in surprise. 

“Another one,” he chuckled. “Very talented British boys.” 

He peered at Potter. “Where did you learn that?” 

“I used to come here in the summer hols,” Potter said. “With my Muggle family. I picked up a few words I suppose.” 

He took a sip. It was cold, and it was alcohol. He tipped up the glass and gulped it down, then set down the empty glass. “Thanks for the drink,” he said. “I’m going home.” He stood up. 

“What?” Potter said, and downed his drink as well. 

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll walk with you,” Potter said, digging in his pocket and pulling out a wad of damp bank notes. Potter peeled one off and went to the barman. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s kind of wet…” 

He left, walking out the door and back into the stone street, but Potter was right behind him. Potter fell into step beside him.

“What do you want?” He snapped. “Why are you still here?” 

Potter didn’t reply, just kept walking with him. He walked faster. Potter kept up. He Disapparated.

He reappeared, panting slightly, in front of the house and found that his keys had not survived the evening’s events. He was sure he had put them in his pockets, but there was nothing left in his pockets but the cork from a potions bottle. He tossed it and was just getting out his wand to break the lock when he realised with a horrible lurch of the stomach—

_I took Amortentia with me tonight._

_I did._

_It was one of the potions I took with me from that potions cupboard._

_Along with the Veritaserum, the Polyjuice, and everything else._

But he had abandoned half those potions in the bathroom with the shell bath when he’d escaped from his audience with Kazimir Dolohov. He wracked his brains, trying to remember exactly which potions he had left behind— but he hadn’t been sure, he had just abandoned the task of gathering them up and gone to investigate the disturbance, which had turned out to be Potter and Weasley breaking into the house. 

He didn’t know why he had a horrible feeling about that bottle of Amortentia. 

He heard a sound behind him. He turned with a resigned air to find Potter standing there, looking at him. 

“I _told you_ to _bugger off_ ,” he said. “Can’t you take a hint?” 

He turned around and ignored Potter and started opening the door to the house. He could find a way to re-lock it from the inside once he’d gotten it open.

_This is getting on my last nerve._

He spun around. “What part of _fuck off_ do you not understand, Potter?” 

Potter hung his head. “Please,” he said. “Don’t…” Potter glanced at him. “Please don’t make me go.” 

His heart was pounding, anger and frustration making him want to just take hold of Potter and shake him as hard as he could. “What, you want to stay _here_?” 

Potter nodded. 

“Why.” He folded his arms. “Why.” 

Potter shrugged. 

He gave Potter a fake smile. “That’s about as convincing as a saddle on a Hungarian Horntail, Potter. Not a horse I care to ride.” He turned back to the door. “Goodnight.” 

“Why did you take me with you?” Potter said. “If you’re that mad at me?” 

He turned around. “Please don’t construe my offer as forgiveness, Potter. I’m just a decent enough human being to have done that _despite_ what you did. I don’t want rot in jail like my cousin, my aunt _and_ my father and I doubt you do either. It had nothing, absolutely _nothing_ to do with anything else. So don’t you dare for a minute try to pretend that was me forgiving you.” 

“I’m not well,” Potter said. 

_Oh, that just takes the cake._

_Doesn’t that just take the cake?_

_It takes the whole sweet shop, in Hecate’s name._

“Take some responsibility for yourself,” he said in disgust. “Not everything is someone else’s fault.” He made a shooing motion. “What are you waiting for? You’re a fugitive, on the run from the law. You’d better get on your way if you don’t want to be caught.” 

“There aren’t any Portkeys,” Potter pointed out. “How are they going to catch me? The Aurors I mean?” 

He was bone-tired, he was cold and he didn’t have the energy to keep arguing with Potter in the street. He looked at Potter. 

_He’s… he’s not well._

_Let’s face it._

He’d been struck with a moment of madness back there in Dolohov’s plasticky mansion. One kiss from Potter and his last ounce of common sense had gone out the window like an owl taking flight. What was it called, when two people went totally mad together? 

_Folie à deux_

_Insanity for two_

Maybe that was the story of this entire week. This absurd mission of Potter’s, and he had helped Potter drag it out long past the time when Potter should have given up and gone home. 

_Why?_

_Because I wanted to be with him._

He sighed and cast a curse at the front door lock which melted through the mechanism like acid. He opened the door and let Potter in. 

_I wanted to believe he liked me so much…_

_I was ready to put both of us at risk…_

_Ignore my own instincts telling me to stop for his own safety…_

Potter walked past him and into the house. Potter already knew the house, knew where things were. Potter disappeared into the living room. 

He turned his attention to finding a way to secure the door. He managed to think of something stronger than _Alohomora_ and left it at that. He was so tired he could barely stand. He went into the living room, but Potter wasn’t there. He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. 

_I need tea._

He sat there waiting for the kettle to boil and he heard the sound of the shower being turned on in the bathroom upstairs. 

_That reminds me._

He got up and went into the pantry and opened the potions cupboard. He had to push some bottles aside and dig right into the back of the cabinet, but he found another bottle of Skele-gro in there. He took that and a bottle of pain relief that was just in date back to the table with him. The water had boiled and he made tea. There was no milk in the fridge, though, so he threw that out and made another cup with a mint teabag he found lurking in the back of the empty cupboard, in a paper packet, the last of its kind. 

_I’ve only got myself to blame._

He couldn’t sit there, waiting idly for the bad feelings to come, waiting for the bad thoughts, so he got up and took the tea with him. He walked up the stairs, feeling the muscles in his legs protest. He seemed to have had a very active day, though it had all turned into something of a blur, especially the last part, stalking the streets of the Old Town and looking for Father. 

_Father._

He went into his bedroom and shut the door. His hair was stiff with salt but he didn’t have the energy to take a shower. He just stripped and found new clean pants and a singlet. But then he realised he needed to tell Potter where to sleep, so he dug in the small pine closet and found a terry robe which must have belonged to his mother, since the last time he had been here he had been eleven. He wrapped it round himself and went out into the corridor. 

He tapped on the door of the bathroom. “Potter?” He called. “You can sleep in the master bedroom. It’s just down the hall.” He realised that the bed must be unmade, since there were no House Elves. And the sheets had been slept in not just by his father, but by Kazimir Dolohov as well. 

_I wouldn’t actually wish that on my worst enemy._

_I’d better do something about that…_

He’d only thought about it because he’d been rather annoyed for the past few days that when he went to bed he kept finding his bed rumpled and unmade. But after a while it had dawned on him that the House Elves were responsible for making the bed. Now he went down the hallway into his father’s bedroom. He’d come in here this afternoon to grab Father’s robes. 

_Yep._

_The sheets are all messy._

He managed to get them off by pulling hard, and then wondered what to do next. 

_Do we need to buy new ones?_

He certainly hadn’t thought of that… he hadn’t exactly had time to go sheet shopping and come to think of it, he didn’t even know where you would start if you wanted to buy a sheet. Surely they were spun by hand by House Elves? 

_Well, ours must be._

_But what about Muggles?_

He found some white fabric folded up in the wardrobe which felt like a sheet and seemed to be one when he unfolded it. He spread it across the bed. 

_Okay. That’s the bottom sheet._

_Doesn’t there need to be another one?_

He found a second piece of white fabric in the wardrobe, but it was all wrinkly at the edges and when he tried to spread it out, it wouldn’t lie flat. He tossed it on the floor in the corner with the dirty sheets. 

_I give up._

He left the room and went back to his bedroom. The shower was still running. Potter must be washing for England. 

_I’m done._

He turned off the light, climbed into bed and settled his head on the pillow. 

_Oh Hecate._

Far from feeling tired, he suddenly felt wide awake. 

_Father._

Father had killed Fenrir Greyback.

Father was missing. 

Father might be hunting Dolohov at this very moment. 

Father might be dead. 

The door to his bedroom opened. He froze and his heart was in his throat. It was pitch dark and he couldn’t see a thing. “Potter?” He said. “Do you need something? I left some Skele-Gro and a pain potion outside the bathroom for you.” 

He felt the edge of the mattress dip on the other side of the bed, the opposite bottom corner compared to where he was. 

“Malfoy,” Potter said. 

_Oh Hecate…_

There was something about the tone of Potter’s voice. He knew where he had heard that voice before. 

_Hecate…_

_Hecate help me_

“Malfoy,” Potter said again, and it was like Future Potter had entered the room. 

He almost wanted to ask, _Do you have a Time Turner around your neck, or…?_

“Yes?” He heard himself reply, and he heard how his own voice had gone low and breathy again. 

There was a long silence. Finally Potter said, “Can I sleep here?” 

He closed his eyes, though it barely made a difference in the darkness. “Why?” he said, and now his breathy voice was gone. His voice sounded unhappy and tight now.

Another long silence. “I’m scared.” 

He put his face in the pillow and prayed for strength. 

_Hecate, why are you doing this to me?_

He took several deep breaths. “Alright,” he said. 

He heard and felt Potter crawling onto the other side of the bed and getting under the sheets. A wave of sandalwood scent washed over him, along with the scent of Potter himself, warm, clean, and he couldn’t put his finger on it—

_but it smells good_

He felt the hairs on his arms and neck rise. At that moment he wished he had worn more. Full pyjamas would be better. Oh, but Potter had burned those off him at the Manor. Hmm. 

Potter settled in and then all he could hear was Potter’s breathing and feel his presence. It was a big bed, but he could still feel Potter’s warmth under the sheets. 

“Malfoy,” Potter whispered.

“Yes, Potter,” he said, tired and drained. 

“I’m didn’t mean it,” Potter said. 

“What?” He said, and he could tell there was a bored edge in his voice. Lying in bed with Potter was not the festival of sexuality he had always imagined it would be. He was exhausted, heartsick and worried about Father. 

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Potter said. “About you. That you can’t… love.” 

“Really?” He was facing away from Potter, curled on his side, and he was damned if Potter was getting any of his bed covers. He hung onto them tightly. “Then why did you say it in front of all those Servants and half of Dumbledore’s Army?” 

“I don’t know,” Potter whispered. 

“Well, Potter,” he said, “You’re wrong. Just ask my family or my tutor who died in the Battle of Hogwarts. Any of them can vouch for the fact that I’m capable of love. I even have emotions, unlike _someone_ I know.” He rolled his eyes and got up on one elbow to fluff his pillow. 

“I have emotions,” Potter said stiffly. 

“Yeah?” He yawned. “Which one?” 

Potter was silent. 

“Anger? Is hunger an emotion?” 

_Oh, and I forgot to mention your sex drive._

_I guess that’s what was responsible for your little indiscretions today._

He yawned again and closed his eyes. He wanted to think about Future Potter. He wanted to think about two years from now, how there would be Future Potter and what he might say and do. 

“You cry a lot,” Potter said. 

He turned over to face Potter. “Get out.” 

Potter sat up. He couldn’t see it, but he heard it. “No—wait—I—”

“I don’t have what you’re looking for, Potter,” he said. “I have no idea what that is, but I don’t have it. I can tell you that now.” 

“Malfoy—hang on—listen, I—” Potter sounded desperate. “I’m begging you, Malfoy. Please don’t—I only meant, I—” Potter sniffed. And sniffed again. 

_Hold on._

He frowned. 

_Is he crying?_

He reached over to his bedside table and grabbed some tissues and poked his hand into the darkness, trying to give them to Potter. “Here,” he said. “Tissues.” His hand eventually knocked against Potter’s head and he said awkwardly, “Sorry.” 

He felt Potter’s fingers find his and take the tissues from him. 

“Okay, Potter,” he said, lying back down again. “You can stay. But go to sleep, for Hecate’s sake.” 

Potter lay back down as well, but now he could just hear him crying. He could hear the series of little short breaths, the gasp of air, the little short breaths again. Potter blew his nose. 

He lay there, trying to ignore the growing tightness in his chest. He thought of how in that hotel room, when Potter had been sad because of the Daily Prophet headlines, he had wanted so badly to go and comfort him. He felt it now. The feeling grew in his chest. His arms were practically aching with it. 

“Potter?” He whispered. “Did you take that Skele-Gro?” 

“Yes,” Potter hiccoughed. 

“Potter,” he said, not whispering this time. 

Potter was shaking the very mattress with his crying. 

“Potter, come here,” he said.

Potter didn’t need to be told twice. He heard Potter moving. He was lying on his back and then he felt Potter’s arm reaching out in the dark. His left arm. His injured arm. He took it and put it on the pillow next to his head. He found Potter’s shoulder and aligned it with his own. Potter’s chest pressed against his own. He put his arms around Potter and Potter’s head on his shoulder. Only the sheets, covering them both to the armpit, separated them. He turned to the side slightly. Potter’s face was pressed into his shoulder. 

He realised he was trembling, but Potter’s sobs hid it. He stroked one hand up and down Potter’s back, and though it was covered in a sheet he could feeling the indented line of his spine, his shoulder blades, the muscles in his shoulders. “You’re alright,” he said. “You’re alright, Potter.” 

“When I…” Potter tried to say. 

“What?” He held on to Potter for dear life, and he wished he was touching Potter’s skin, though he shouldn’t think about that.

“When I was very little,” Potter stuttered. “I used to call my Auntie…” Potter turned his face into his shoulder again. 

He gathered Potter to him as close as he could. 

“I used to call her Mummy,” Potter whispered. 

_Potter…_

He felt his own eyes filling up with tears. He ran his hands over Potter’s arms and back, trying to reassure him. He put his hand in Potter’s thick, sandalwood-scented hair and kissed his forehead.

Potter’s arms were around him as well. “I didn’t understand,” he said, “I was too little.” Then he said, “I was always different. Because I was adopted. I was the baby who was found on the doorstep. No-one knew who my real parents were. But then… she told me that I was really her nephew, and she was my aunt. But that made Uncle Vernon furious and I had to see a therapist and I … I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand any of it.” 

He pushed Potter’s hair back from his face and dabbed at Potter’s cheeks with a tissue. He couldn’t even see Potter’s face, he could just feel it. He felt Potter’s fingers trace his forehead, his cheekbones. “You’re crying,” Potter said. 

“I’m adopted too, Potter,” he said. He was weeping. 

“What?” Potter stuttered, his hand in his hair, then on his face again, tracing his eyebrow, wiping the tears off his cheeks. 

“Yeah,” he said. 

“I didn’t know that,” Potter whispered. 

“It’s a secret. I’ve never told anyone before.”

He heard Potter’s heavy breath, rasping. Then Potter’s lips found his in the dark. And they were kissing, open-mouthed, desperate, and ravenous. 

“Malfoy,” Potter said right into his mouth. “Malfoy,” Potter said again. He could feel Potter’s fingers on his back through his top. He moaned, unable to help himself, pulling Potter toward him by the back of the neck. Potter rolled onto his back, pulling him toward him. He pushed away the sheet which separated them and took hold of Potter.

He stopped. He flew backward, as if Potter had been scalding hot. He had put his hands on Potter and he had put his hands on bare skin, bare skin on Potter’s chest under one hand, bare skin all the way down to the hip under his other hand. 

_He’s wearing nothing._

He ended up at the foot of the bed, breathing hard. Potter had been completely covered by the sheets, by a summer woollen blanket on top of that—he hadn’t felt—hadn’t realised. 

He could hear Potter’s breathing as well, and he knew what was going on. 

_Potter came in here wearing nothing._

_He came in here naked._

_And got into bed with me._

“Malfoy,” Potter said, his voice rough. 

_He came here to give himself to me._

“I want you,” Potter said, and then Potter was closer. Potter’s hand found his bare knee. He was only wearing Calvins and the vest top. Potter’s voice reached his ear. Potter was kneeling next to him, and he couldn’t move as Potter whispered in his ear. “I want you to…” 

He could feel Potter shaking. He put his hand on Potter’s neck. “Are you… are you sure?” 

Potter nodded, his hands reaching. “Yes. Yes—” Potter’s fingers were on his face. 

“Wait,” he said. “I—hold on. I have to get something.” 

He stood up and clambered off the bed, slightly dizzy and disoriented. He found the door and it let in light from the landing, where there was a window with no curtain and the streetlamp was letting in a yellowish sulphur light. It fell on Potter as he slipped out the door and he saw the evidence of Potter’s nakedness for himself, saw the curve of his back, saw his legs curled under him. Potter cast a glance at him which went into his heart, pierced it through the centre and stayed there, quivering, like Potter had just shot an arrow into a target. He forced his mouth into a smile, a small reassuring smile, and then turned away and went toward the master bedroom. 

He had seen a tube of lubricant there this afternoon when he was looking for dress robes. 

He went into the bedroom, with his sad attempt at making the bed, and opened the drawer of the bedside table. The tube was there. He stared at it, feeling as though he was having an out of body experience. 

When he and Potter started kissing he had become aroused instantly, but now he wasn’t feeling like that at all. He picked up the tube of gel from the drawer, opened it and put some in his palm. He felt it with his fingers, then wiped it off on the bedsheet. His hand was shaking. He took the tube with him and walked back to his bedroom.

He went inside and closed the door and made his way back to the bed. “Malfoy?” Potter’s voice sounded from the other side, where he had first lain down. He put the lube on the bedside table and got back under the covers. That wasn’t very sexy, he supposed. It was more sexy to be on top of the covers. Or on the floor. Or something. “Malfoy?”

“Come under here,” he said. 

He felt Potter getting under the covers and then Potter came toward him. He put out his arm before Potter got too close. “Turn around,” he said. 

Potter did so, slowly, and he heard or felt Potter lay his head on the pillow. 

As carefully as he could, he crept closer to Potter and lay behind him. He wanted to hold Potter to him tightly but he didn’t dare. Potter backed up against him, so they were nested together. He put his arm around Potter, in the centre of his chest. He could feel Potter’s heart beating under his hand. He could feel Potter trembling against him. He leaned forward and said into Potter’s ear, “Let’s just go to sleep.” 

Potter turned back toward him. “What?”

He held Potter to him, held him tightly now. All of Potter was against him. He felt terribly protective of him. He didn’t want anything to hurt Potter. Not ever again. 

Potter turned his face toward his, he could tell when he felt his breath on his face. It smelled like mint. He could feel Potter shaking. “Did I do something wrong?” 

He held Potter tighter. He pressed a kiss onto his lips. “No.”

“Malfoy,” Potter put a hand into his hair. 

He peppered kisses all over Potter’s face. 

“I want you to protect me,” Potter said. “Like you did… at the hotel.” 

He held on to Potter and nuzzled his face into the back of his neck. “Okay.” 

Future Potter had been wiser than he knew.

“Night, Malfoy,” Potter said. 

“Night, Potter.”

_I love you._

_I love you forever._


	97. A Different Dream

**Harry**

He was on the platform of the Hogwarts Express. The big engine was there, puffing steam into the air. Families and children rushed around him, pushing luggage carts and balancing cages holding owls on top. There was someone standing next to him. He turned to see Malfoy, who squinted at him through a ray of sunlight which cut through the steam from the train. Malfoy tucked a strand of hair behind his hair. He wasn’t going bald this time. Malfoy put his hand on his shoulder and pointed. 

He looked and saw Ron and Lavender down the platform. Ron was talking to two red-haired children. Lavender had another one, still a baby, bouncing on her hip. Ron straightened up and caught sight of him, raising his hand stiffly in greeting. He held his own hand up in reply. 

Malfoy had one hand on a trolley which held two Hogwarts trunks. 

_That’s odd._

_Are we both teaching at Hogwarts now?_

_Is that what happens to me in the future?_

But then he felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down into a pair of green eyes just like his own. It was a little girl with jet black hair. “Dad?” She said. She even had glasses similar to his.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He heard himself answer. 

She frowned. “Father says I can’t ride in the Prefects carriage with Petunia.” 

He put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “I’m sure your sister will come and check on you.” He glanced down the platform and saw a tall girl with long, platinum-silver hair chatting to a group of older teenagers in Hogwarts robes. “See? There she is.” The girl glanced at them. She looked exactly like a female version of Malfoy. 

She came toward them. “Ready, Bella?” She combed the little girl’s messy hair with her fingers. 

Bella nodded excitedly. 

“Come on, then,” Petunia said and led her away. 

“She’s so proud,” a voice said near his ear. “She gets to hang out with the prefects.” 

He turned and grinned at Malfoy. 

“Bellatrix!” Malfoy called after her. 

She stopped, then turned around slowly, looking highly embarrassed. 

“Don’t you dare try to get on that train without a hug for your father.” 

She looked so furious that he couldn’t help laughing. But she marched back and hugged Malfoy anyway, before hurrying away to join her older sister. The train whistle blew and the girls disappeared onto the train. 

“Shit, the trunks,” Malfoy muttered, and started levitating the trunks into the air. He joined in and helped Malfoy get the trunks into the baggage cart. Then the train pulled away. Malfoy put his arm around him and they both waved as the Hogwarts Express pulled away. The girls poked their heads out of the window finally, joining dozens of other kids all frantically waving and shouting. 

When the train was out of sight, he turned to Malfoy, who was grinning at him wickedly. “Finally,” Malfoy muttered, leaning in to give him a kiss. “We can have sex again.” 

He laughed. “Careful,” he said. “I thought we said we’d stop at two.” 

Malfoy laughed and smacked him. “Right. I’m off to find a more romantic husband.” 

He caught him. “I don’t think so,” he murmured, and kissed Malfoy, hands in his silky hair, in the middle of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, as witches and wizards streamed past them, going back to their lives, to their daily routines, not even knowing how much he loved Malfoy. They would never know, they would never understand. 

*

He opened his eyes.

_It was a dream._

He was looking at a stone wall. He was lying in bed. There was a cool breeze coming from somewhere which just slightly smelled of the sea. The sheets were soft and so was the pillow. It was so comfortable he wanted to stay here forever. He stretched. 

_That was a dream._

It was only when he turned over and spread out his limbs that he realised he was alone, and at the same moment he remembered what happened last night. He remembered that he hadn’t slept alone. He was filled with a new feeling. A feeling that… he put his hands over his chest. His chest was bare. Then he remembered that he wasn’t wearing anything. 

He sat up. He felt as the dream was still in him. It felt as if the dream had started when he got into this bed last night, and it had just continued all through the night and was still happening now. He got out of the bed and looked around for something to wear. He found clean pants in a drawer, and a t-shirt, and put them on. He poked around and looked in the wardrobe and found a pair of jeans folded up which he put on. It all fit him. 

He wandered out of the room. “Malfoy?” He called. The name felt strange on his lips. It sounded new. There was no response. He went down the stairs and into the kitchen. There was no-one there. He went into the living room. There was no-one there either. He looked through the bookshelf. On the bottom shelf there was a stack of Martin Miggs comics. 

_These must be here from when Malfoy was a kid._

He leafed through them and selected one to read. He sat back down and at that moment he heard the front door open. He stood up. His heart had suddenly started beating faster. He went through into the kitchen and found Malfoy coming in though the door carrying two plastic bags full of shopping. 

Malfoy stopped when he saw him. Malfoy was wearing a tight white vest top with black stripes on it. It was so short that he could see Malfoy’s navel. Malfoy’s lean, spare chest and arms looked so good in it that he wanted to run his hands all over them. Malfoy pushed his sunglasses up on his head and said, “Hey.” 

“Hey,” he said, feeling unbelievably awkward all of a sudden. “Er—I’ll—take those, if you like.” He stepped forward to take the bags from Malfoy. Malfoy’s silver eyes watched him, looking a little nervous as Malfoy handed the bags over.

He took the bags and put them on the table. Malfoy followed. “I, er, thought I’d buy some food,” he said. “I don’t know how to cook, but I thought… I’d give it a go.” 

He looked inside the bags. “I can cook,” he said. He looked at Malfoy. The new feeling in him, the feeling from last night, grew stronger. “Do you want me to make breakfast?” 

Malfoy’s eyes were huge. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll set the table.” 

He took the plastic bags off the table and put them on the counter to start unpacking them. Malfoy had bought eggs. Milk. Coffee. There was dried ham. Cheese. Salami. Fresh bread. 

Malfoy was putting plates on the table. “I can do the coffee,” he said. “That’s the only thing I know how to make.” Malfoy took the coffee to the counter and started fishing around in the cupboards and drawers. He came up with a teaspoon and a small saucepan. He filled it with water from the tap and put it on the hob. “Now, er…” he looked at it, at the plastic knobs on the side. “Hmm….” 

“Here,” he said, going over. There was a box of matches on the counter. He lit one, held it to the burner and turned on the gas. It light and he turned it to a low heat. 

“Thanks,” Malfoy said, glancing at him. 

He realised he was standing rather closer to Malfoy than maybe he normally would have. He moved away quickly. His mind was suddenly full of last night. He could feel Malfoy lying behind him, feel the warmth of his body, feel Malfoy’s arm around him, feel Malfoy’s body nestled against his. He knew his cheeks were getting hot. He ducked down and looked for saucepans or a frying pan in the cupboards. He found one of each and stood back up again. “What kind of eggs do you want?” 

Malfoy was spooning coffee into the small saucepan on the flame. “I don’t mind. Scrambled.” 

“Malfoy, are you sure you know what you’re doing?” He said, watching Malfoy. “I don’t think that’s how you make coffee.” 

Malfoy gave him a small smile. “It’s Turkish coffee,” he said. 

He frowned. “That saucepan does look a little… wonky,” he said. 

Malfoy grinned. “It’s not wonky. It’s a normal coffee pot here.” He looked away from Malfoy’s gaze. Malfoy was watching the coffee. “You have to watch it,” Malfoy said. “It has to boil three times.” 

He cracked eggs into a bowl and started to beat them. “What’s…” he began. “What’s the deal with those Martin Miggs comics, anyway?” 

Malfoy was leaning over the hob. “Martin Miggs? I know. They’re terrible.” 

He focused on turning the eggs into a smooth yellow liquid. “I don’t—get it. Why is he the _mad_ Muggle? And why do this witch and wizard go around doing all this… it just seems like they’re tormenting him all the time.” 

“Magical folk believe that Muggles go mad when they see magic being done. And it’s… funny to get the better of them. That’s wizarding humour.” 

He frowned. “It’s not funny.” 

“Oh, I don’t think it’s funny either, Potter,” Malfoy said. “But most witches and wizards don’t really see Muggles as people. You know. They don’t see them as fully human.” 

He nodded. “Right…”

Malfoy was looking at the coffee pot. “This is too hot, Potter. It’s boiling too fast— Potter!” Malfoy sounded panicky. He looked and saw that the pot was bubbling over. Coffee granules flooded the hob and extinguished the flame. “Oh no!” Malfoy gasped. 

He lit another match and re-lit the burner and turned it to the lowest possible heat. “There,” he said. “It’s alright.” He glanced at Malfoy, who was very near now. He looked so attractive in that vest top. He wanted to touch his midriff. 

Malfoy was looking back at him, eyes searching his face. “Muggles seem stupid to us,” he said. “They seem like,” Malfoy swallowed. “They have learning difficulties. They seem… retarded.” 

He moved back to the eggs. They were ready now. He put them aside and turned his attention to the rest of the food. “Didn’t they have any bacon?” He asked.

“I couldn’t find any,” Malfoy said. 

He started taking the cured meat out of its wrapping. “What were you saying?” 

Malfoy paused. “I’m just trying to explain,” he said. 

He nodded. “Wizards and witches think nothing of doing magic on Muggles,” he said. 

“It’s the law,” Malfoy said quickly. “In Britain. It’s the law.” 

He found a plate and decided to put the cured meat and cheese on that. He started taking it out carefully and laying it on the plate. “The law?” 

“If a Muggle sees magic being done, you must Obliviate their memory,” he said. 

“Or they would go mad,” he muttered. 

“Yeah,” Malfoy said, sounding relieved. “Yeah, or they’ll go mad. People really believe that, Potter.” 

He put the plates of meat and cheese on the table. “I’ve never had cheese for breakfast before,” he admitted. 

Malfoy smiled. “Well, now that’s living dangerously, isn’t it?” 

He glanced at him. “Yeah.” 

Malfoy opened the cupboard and reached up. His top rode up and he could see so much of his pale stomach, with lines running down it where muscles moved beneath the skin, that he wanted to touch him more than ever. “Coffee?” Malfoy asked.

“Thanks,” he said, and went over to the hob. “I’m going to make the eggs now,” he said. 

Malfoy poured the coffee and squeezed past him. It was a small kitchen. Malfoy put the coffee pot in the sink and sat down at the table. 

He cast about for something to fry the eggs in and realised Malfoy had bought olive oil. He splashed some in the pan and added the eggs and started stirring them with the spatula. “The thing is,” he said. “Magic does sort of make Muggles go mad.” 

Malfoy was behind him at the kitchen table now, so he couldn’t see his facial expression. 

“The first time I saw magic,” he said, watching the eggs slowly start to solidify. “I thought I had gone mad.” 

“When you were a little kid?” Malfoy asked. His voice was sort of sharp. 

He didn’t turn around. He just kept stirring the eggs. “Yeah,” he said. “I used to…” he trailed off. “I used to do involuntary magic.” He took a deep breath. “I would set things on fire. It scared the living daylights out of me. I tried to pretend it wasn’t me doing it, you know. When I saw someone _else_ do magic, that was when…” he sighed. “I really thought I had lost it.” 

He kept stirring the eggs. They were coming along nicely. Just a little longer now. 

“That’s how witches and wizards feel about Muggle technology,” Malfoy said. 

He frowned. “The eggs are done,” he said, turning around and bringing the frying pan to Malfoy’s plate. He pushed half the eggs onto Malfoy’s plate. “Enough?” 

“That’s fine,” Malfoy said in a normal voice, but then he caught Malfoy’s eyes looking at him and he felt a shiver go down his spine. 

He quickly spooned the rest of the eggs onto his own plate and put the frying pan in the sink. He sat down opposite Malfoy, picked up his fork and knife and started to eat. 

_Oh my god._

He closed his eyes. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Malfoy said, and took a sip of his coffee.

He strained his memory. “I can’t remember.” He hadn’t managed to eat any of that breakfast with Neville. Not a bite.

“You need to eat, Potter,” Malfoy said. “At the risk of sounding like someone’s parent, you’re looking rather thin.” Malfoy looked at him. “How’s your arm?” 

He laughed. “Now you do sound like someone’s parent.” He stretched the arm. It felt good. Good as new. 

“The Skele-Gro worked,” Malfoy said with satisfaction, putting scrambled eggs on a piece of bread and biting down with relish. 

He laughed. 

“Eat!” Malfoy said through a mouthful of food. 

He obeyed. It was actually a good breakfast, even with the cheese and salami. 

Malfoy got up and started to make more coffee, refiling the coffee pot, spooning in the coffee. Then he struck a match and actually managed to light one of the burners. Malfoy was holding down the plastic knob with all his strength. 

“You can let go,” he said. “It will stay lit.” 

Malfoy did so. The burner stayed lit. Malfoy laughed delightedly, a light, airy sound he had never heard before. “I did it.” Malfoy turned and grinned at him. 

He couldn’t help smiling back. He was filled with that new feeling. That strange feeling he’d had ever since he woke up. Ever since last night.

“I’ve never worn this in public before,” Malfoy said, leaning his hip against the kitchen counter, pulling on the hem of his vest top to look at it. “I thought I would get beaten up.” 

He added milk to his coffee. It was strong. “Did you?” 

Malfoy shrugged. “Almost.” 

“ _What_?” He put the coffee down. 

Malfoy turned and looked at him. Malfoy’s silver eyes were so exquisitely beautiful that he felt his heart quake looking into them. Malfoy smiled. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do about that.” 

“Yes I can,” he said. 

Malfoy turned back to the coffee pot and shook it, just a little, looking at it. Malfoy turned back to him and put his hands on his hips. “And what, _exactly_ , would you do?” He asked, one of his eyebrows rising delicately. 

There was a hissing sound as the coffee boiled over and spilled all over the hob. “Shit,” Malfoy turned the gas off, then lit another match and tried again. “Stupid thing,” he muttered. 

He looked at Malfoy. That dream he’d had was filing his mind. 

_What a strange dream._

_I guess it wasn’t any weirder than the one I had after the Battle…_

_What’s up with the weird kid’s names in these dreams, anyway?_

Well, he wouldn’t have thought that a week ago. But now it didn’t seem that strange. 

_It doesn’t seem strange to you?_

_Nothing about this seems strange to you?_

Malfoy seemed to give up on the coffee. “It’s fine like this,” he said, pouring it into his cup and abandoning the coffee pot. He sat down again and stared into the cup. “I have to go look for Father,” he said. 

“Do you want me to come with you?” He said immediately.

Malfoy shook his head. “No.” 

“Are you sure?” 

_Are you sure?_

That was what Malfoy said to him last night… 

“Yeah,” Malfoy said and stood up. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said quietly. “I’m just going to brush my teeth.” 

He watched Malfoy walk away and up the stairs. 

He finished the last piece of salami on his plate and drank the last of the coffee in his cup. Then he realised that he needed to kiss Malfoy before he left. There was no way he was letting Malfoy walk out the door without doing that. 

His wand was lying on the table. He picked it up and pointed it at himself and muttered the words of the tooth-cleaning charm. It also made your breath smell like mint. He felt very thankful for Hermione all of a sudden. He stood up and started clearing away the plates and putting them in the sink. There didn’t seem to be a bin for the odds and ends and broken eggshells. 

_Malfoy probably doesn’t know what a bin is._

He heard movement and looked up to see Malfoy coming back, sticking his wand in the waistband of his jeans. Malfoy looked up and saw him. 

He moved toward Malfoy. “Will you be alright?” He heard himself say. 

Malfoy’s eyes went soft and he came closer. “Yeah,” he said. “Will you?” 

He nodded. “I need to buy shoes,” he said. “I lost my trainers in the sea.” He moved closer to Malfoy, close enough to reach out and hug him. 

Malfoy looked back at him. He seemed to be hesitating. 

He suddenly felt incredibly nervous. He moved closer. Malfoy didn’t move away. He reached out and then, thinking better of it, took his hands back. He didn’t know why it felt like it was the first time, like he’d never kissed Malfoy before. Malfoy’s light eyes were glowing in the sunlight from the small window behind him. Malfoy reached out his hand and Malfoy’s fingers caressed the back of his forearm, the one that had been broken, on the soft skin there, ever so gently. 

He stepped closer to Malfoy, so their chests were touching, and touched Malfoy’s cheek. Malfoy closed his eyes. His lips touched Malfoy’s, brushed against them. Malfoy exhaled. He turned his head and did it again, then Malfoy’s arm snaked around his waist and he brought his arms around Malfoy’s back and pressed his lips to Malfoy’s. It was sweet. Brief. Chaste. Malfoy opened his eyes. They stared at each other. Malfoy stroked his finger over the scar on his forehead. 

Then Malfoy turned and went out the door and it closed behind him. 

_Well._

_That’s that it, I suppose._

He turned and went to the sink and tried to do the washing up, but Malfoy didn’t seem to know about washing up liquid, because he hadn’t bought any. He managed to clean the plates, cups and utensils with magic and put them back in the drawer. He tidied up the remains of the breakfast, put the leftovers in the fridge, and collected all the rubbish in one of the plastic bags the shopping had come in. 

Then he picked up his wand. He was starting to cry again. He wiped the tears off. He said, “ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” and as he said it, Malfoy’s eyes filled his mind’s eye. His silver eyes and the way they looked at him. He wanted to keep that look in his heart forever. His Patronus burst out of his wand and started cantering slowly around the room. “Ginny,” he said. “There is a fireplace connected to by Floo to Malfoy Manor. My Patronus will lead you.” He waved at the Patronus and it sprang into the air and sailed through the wall and was off. He watched it go down the street, wondering if Muggles could see it. Wondering what they would think of it. Wondering if any of them would be struck with madness as a result. 

He started walking slowly upstairs and went back into the bedroom. The leather folder Auntie had given him was lying, neatly bound, on the desk under the window. He picked it up and held it with both arms. As he turned to leave, he saw something lying on the bedside table. He went closer and picked it up. It was a clear plastic tube of—

_What is that?_

_Lubricant gel._

He dropped it immediately, turned and walked out of the bedroom and went back downstairs. He wiped his face. He had to stop crying before they got here. There was a knock on the front door. He went and opened it. Ginny was standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “You called?” 

He stepped back to let her inside. She wandered in looking incredibly casual. 

“In there,” he pointed, following her into the living room. “There’s Floo powder on the mantle.” 

She took the pot of Floo powder, knelt down and used her wand to start a fire in the grate. She tossed a handful of Floo powder on the fire. “The Ministry of Magic, Auror Department,” she said, but the fire didn’t start to glow green. She glanced at him, then tried another handful. “The Burrow,” she said. The fire remained stubbornly orange.

“I think it’s just connected to Malfoy Manor,” he said. 

She stood up and dusted her hands off. Then she pulled a galleon out of her pocket, and, glancing suspiciously at him, put it to her mouth and started muttering into it. 

He crossed his arms defensively and looked away. 

She put it away. “They’re coming,” she said. 

Silence fell. Pretty soon he felt so awkward he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He didn’t want to cry any more. He sort of wanted to scream.

“I hope you realise you’re under arrest,” Ginny said casually, studying her nails. 

“I’m not an idiot, thanks,” he muttered. 

“Could have fooled me.” 

“It was real mature of you to keep ribbing me about Malfoy,” he said. “Really mature. Exactly what I’d expect from the leader of Dumbledore’s Army.” 

She glanced at him, and then sighed heavily. She pushed herself off back of the sofa, which she had been leaning against, and came toward him. She spread her hands. “Neville has been on at me to apologise to you about that,” she said. “So here it is: sorry, Harry.” She crossed her arms and turned away, looking at the fire burning in the fireplace. 

“Wow,” he muttered. “I really believed you there.” 

“I don’t really care if you do or not, Harry,” she said, still not looking at him. 

_Just because someone kisses you, that doesn’t make you their boyfriend._

_Just because you have feelings, they don’t necessarily mean anything._

_Just because you have a dream about the future, doesn’t mean it’s going to come true._

“Great,” he said. “I don’t care either.” 

“Great,” Ginny said. “You clearly don’t care about anything, actually. Such as whether people live or die. Unless those people are—oh wait, I know. _You_.” 

_I don’t even care about that any more._

Ginny’s attention was drawn to the window. “Thank Merlin,” she muttered, and left the room, heading for the front door. 

He heard her open it. “Just bring them right in here,” she said. “Yeah, right through there. Harry’s in there. Yeah. No, he’s fine.” 

Through the doorway from the kitchen came Ron, who was leading a phalanx of black-robed Death Eaters, bound to each other and also bound at the wrists and with shackles on their ankles. It looked as if they had all been Confunded — maybe to make them easier to control. Yaxley’s eyes were unfocused and he was drooling. He felt nauseous. Antonin Dolohov and Lucius Malfoy were, of course, not among the group.

_And Fenrir Greyback._

_He escaped too._

He had seen Fenrir Greenback’s body with his own eyes, bloody and mangled on the small beach among the rocks when Malfoy had been searching for his Father. 

_What about Kazimir Dolohov?_

He didn’t remember seeing Kazimir Dolohov at the house after Dumbledore’s Army had escaped. Perhaps Dolohov Senior and tipped him off and he had slipped away. 

Yaxley shuffled past him and he felt grateful that Yaxley didn’t seem capable of recognising him. He could feel tears welling in his eyes and cursed Malfoy for passing this crying habit on to him. 

_I didn’t do the right thing yesterday_

_In front of everyone when Ron interrogated Malfoy_

_I was a coward_

_I_ _should have done what I did in front of Yaxley_

_That was the right response_

_That was a real fuck you to the_ _Death Eaters_

The room felt close and oppressive now it was filled with Death Eaters and extra members of Dumbledore’s Army who had come along as back up. No-one seemed to notice he was there, and Ron was ignoring him. 

_When Ron asked Malfoy what happened to start the rumour, I should have gone up there._

He should have backed Malfoy up. He had the proof, he had seen the memory. He should have gone up there and taken Malfoy’s hand, and told the entire room, _I’ll show you what happened to start that rumour._ And then he should have grabbed Malfoy and kissed him for everyone to see. 

_Who am I kidding?_

Everything he felt for Malfoy had come out of a bottle. It was just a potion, and one which would soon wear off. He’d been an idiot to drink the potion, but he’d been an idiot about a lot things, so that was hardly surprising. 

_I am an idiot._

_I have no idea what I’m doing._

_I can’t do anything._

_I can’t even trust myself not to take a love potion to make me fall in love with my worst enemy._

Malfoy had never been his worst enemy, though. Malfoy had mostly been a nuisance, one he’d wished would go away. 

_That’s all Malfoy is._

_A mosquito in your ear._

_You’ll forget about him the moment you stop seeing him all the time._

He would forget about Malfoy the moment the Amortentia wore off, which was surely going to be very soon. 

Ginny was talking to Dean, Luna, Seamus and Pansy. Oliver Wood and Alicia Spinnett were guarding the Death Eaters, standing stern and alert for any possible movement from the prisoners. Finally Ginny was the one who stood back, threw Floo powder onto the fire and shouted, “Malfoy Manor!” 

Dean and Luna went first, wands out, disappearing into the fire. Seamus and Pansy stood on either side of the fire, took hold of Yaxley’s shoulders, and pushed him firmly into the flames. “Malfoy Manor!” Ginny shouted, flinging more Floor powder onto the flames. Yaxley disappeared. Seamus and Pansy continued this pattern, pushing Death Eaters through with Ginny shouting the destination and throwing on more Floo powder for each person. It was like an assembly line. It actually was such a ridiculous sight that he wanted to laugh. 

When the final Death Eater—Alecto Carrow—had been funnelled into the fireplace, Ginny wiped her hands on her robes. Her face was red from standing in front of the fire. She pointed. “In you go,” she said. “Kingsley Shacklebolt himself will be waiting on the other end. He wants to put you in detention himself.” 

He nodded. He was still holding the leather folder Auntie had given him. “Okay,” he said. He took several steps toward the fireplace. It was at that moment that he glanced out the window and he thought he saw, only for a moment, Malfoy’s face in the street beyond. But he blinked and there was no-one there, just the stone wall opposite which was all the view that the small window had.

Holding the folder to his chest, he stepped into the dancing green flames. “Malfoy Manor!” Ginny shouted. He felt himself begin to spin around like a top and the room began to sink away. 

_Oh…_

He had been right. It had been Malfoy through that window. As he span into oblivion, Draco Malfoy entered the living room with the bloodied, mangled body of Lucius Malfoy over his shoulder and began letting off spells left, right and centre at the remaining members of Dumbledore’s Army. 

And just before he spun completely out of sight, Malfoy’s eyes found his. 

He looked away. 

And then he was in the hot, smoky world of the Floo network, and he was not going to see Draco Malfoy again. 


	98. Idealistic

**Draco**

Potter stepped in his way and stood there. “Will you be alright?”   
****

He was putty in Potter’s hands. He held himself back from throwing himself at Potter. “Yeah. Will you?”

Potter nodded. “I need to buy shoes. I lost my trainers in the sea.” Potter came closer. 

Normally he would have laughed at such an absurd statement, but he just stood there looking at Potter as he came closer. He couldn’t stop looking into Potter’s eyes. It was like an addiction. 

_I don’t want to leave._

_I don’t want to leave your side._

He couldn’t bring himself to touch Potter. He didn’t know if Potter regretted what he’d done last night. Maybe Potter was embarrassed. Or maybe Potter was angry with him for not having sex with him, or at least giving him a blow job, or something like that. 

_Maybe he just wanted to get off._

_He thinks you’re fit._

_He knows you like him._

_So why wouldn’t he try it on?_

Quite a lot of people thought that way. It was common and normal. Especially between men. Or so he had heard. 

_If Potter has heard anything about men who have sex with other men…_

_it’s probably the promiscuity thing._

Potter came closer. His eyes were like sea glass. 

_He’s experimenting. Plenty of people do that._

_It doesn’t mean anything more._

It wasn’t like Potter had had that many opportunities to pull in the past few months. He doubted Potter spent a lot of time on the nightlife scene while trying to assassinate the Reptile.

His heart hurt so much when he looked at Potter. He just wanted to feel like he had when Potter was in his arms last night. He just wanted Potter to show him… He reached out his hand and touched Potter’s arm, as if to take his hand, but then he thought better of it and let his hand drop.

Potter came much closer and he felt Potter’s fingers on his face. He let his eyes fall closed. He felt Potter’s lips brush against his own and he sighed. Potter switched sides and brushed his lips hesitantly again. He pulled Potter against him and Potter’s arms came around his back. Potter kissed him, but it was undemanding. Tender. Sweet like a rosebud. 

_Potter…_

He opened his eyes and he and Potter just looked at each other. Potter wanted to break his heart. He had already tried. He traced the scar on Potter’s forehead and felt sad. Infinitely sad. 

_I can’t stay here another minute._

He walked out the door and left Potter behind. 

_I can’t sleep with Potter because he decided he wants to try boys._

_He can bloody well go out to that gay bar and find someone there._

_He can sleep with Kazimir Dolohov for all I care._

This was how naive he was. He was naive enough to think that if another person kissed you, that clearly indicated they wanted an exclusive and long-lasting relationship with you. That clearly indicated they were in love with you. 

_That’s not how it works, Draco._

He was naive enough to think that if another person crawled into bed with you they were trying to tell you that they… 

_I’m stupid._

_I’m just stupid._

If someone crawled into your bed naked in the middle of the night, that meant they wanted one thing. The one thing he _hadn’t_ given Potter. Because he wanted to, but he was also terrified of how it would make him feel. Because he loved Potter and if he had sex with him… he was done for. But that wasn’t the only reason why he stopped last night. Last night he thought Potter was too fragile and upset to be having sex with. 

_Like it’s a big deal._

_Like it matters._

_Like everyone isn’t having sex all the time and not even caring._

The whole situation at Dolohov’s mansion had gotten out of control. 

_Sir told me he was going to teach me about provocation once I turned eighteen._

_We just never got around to it._

_That’s probably the kind of thing he would cover._

It had been very dangerous and tense and exciting sneaking around a mansion full of Death Eaters and the adrenalin had just… been diverted into a different outlet than duelling each other. That was it. 

_Better kissing than fighting each other._

_Right?_

He knew he was idealistic. 

_I get it from Father._

But he had to rid himself of this idea that you met your one true love at Hogwarts, became a couple as teenagers, got married soon after Hogwarts and then settled down for a life of making babies, staying best pals with all your mates from school and feeling a sense of massive accomplishment once you’d got the kids to the age you could finally put them on the Hogwarts Express, wave them good-bye and have the house to yourself again. 

_Okay._

_I’m being sarcastic._

But he bought into the part where you met your soul mate when you were at Hogwarts. He’d had Father and Sir to look to as a model, after all.

_Yeah, then I found out about Mum and Petunia Evans._

_That should have broken up my ideal sharpish._

He walked faster, pulling the scroll of parchment from his pocket. _Do not try to find me tonight, under any circumstances. Father._ He had disobeyed these orders last night of course. Of course. But now he would be there on time. He didn’t know where the spot was. 

_I guess I’ll take a taxi._

_I can bring Father back by Side-Along._

He walked through the Old Town and couldn’t help admiring its stark beauty, the mystery of the ancient stones. So much for his summer getaway. He hadn’t even had a chance to go for a swim. 

_Last night doesn’t count._

_Ha._

And as far as Dubrovnik’s famous nightlife went… well, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of it. Even _Potter_ had been for a night on the tiles. His own _father_ had outdone him in the nightlife department. 

_It’s not summer._

_It’s the second week of May._

He realised he was approaching the Stradun, with its rows of uniform green shutters and polished stones under foot. The smattering of tourists attested to the fact that high season was not upon the city yet. 

_Well, I can be grateful for that, I suppose._

Stradun. The wide Roman promenade which was the centrepiece of this city.

_Dumbledore’s Army headquarters are nearby._

He contemplated taking a detour, then decided to just Disapparate to just within the walls of the Old Town. The less risks he took at this point, the better. He closed his eyes and Apparition took him, squeezing the breath from his body, disorienting him, not unlike Harry Potter, in fact. He emerged beneath the shadow of the city walls and walked under an archway which took him up a stone ramp and through to the bridge which led into the Old Town over a moat choked with greenery. 

Tourist touts with signs advertising boat tours to the outlying islands and city tours, Muggle public transport and plain old houses and shopfronts seemed like an affront after the Old Town. From the wizarding to the mundane, that was the transition. He hailed a taxi and got in. Father had named a beach, but he didn’t know where it was. 

He told the cab driver, who squinted at him through wrinkled folds of skin around his eyes. “How far is that?” He asked. 

The cab driver pointed up the narrow, winding road which led to the city between high, bare hills leading down to the sea. “Ten kilometres,” he said. 

_Shit._

He didn’t have any money. Like an idiot, he hadn’t even thought of that. He’d actually left his wallet behind in the house. 

_Bugger it all._

He needed to get there on time. Father named the time for a reason. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what Father was up to.

_I’m going to find out, once I get there._

_I’m going to hold him accountable for keeping all of this a secret from me._

_But right now, I need to get there._

He bit his lip. He didn’t want to do magic on this Muggle. He really, really did his best not to do magic on Muggles. 

_Fuck._

He sighed. “Yes, take me there, please,” he said, and the cab drove off. He fastened his seatbelt, looking at the driver’s grizzled face. He looked to be in his early sixties. This man must have seen terrible times. Sometimes he wondered if Potter really knew what war was, what that meant. It hadn’t ended in this region, he knew that from the news. Bad things were happening in a region of Serbia which bordered Albania to the north and east. 

He looked out at the sea as they left the Old Town behind and came out onto a road which ran along the coast. It was so beautiful. He didn’t understand why these sorts of things happened. 

 _You are welcome. There is no corpse above you now. Drink! Eat!_ _Živjeli!_

One of the worst days he’d spent with the Servants was not long after the Reptile took up residence in Malfoy Manor. The Reptile had ordered everyone into the formal dining room in the central wing of the house. It was a room out of the past, the distant past when the Malfoys had been powerful, when dozens of vassals came to pay fealty. It was a similar size to the Great Hall at Hogwarts, with a long table running down the centre. They had sat there for hours with the body of Bertha Jerkins spinning slowly above them. He’d wanted to be sick. There had been no food or drink. 

_Hours._

_Hours of boredom and fear._

It was strange how boredom and fear became intermingled, or alternated with each other. Afterward, he and Father had disappeared to the family wing and drank a bottle of Firewhiskey laid down by Abraxas Malfoy. Father could play Strauss as loud as he liked, because the family wing was not accessible by the Servants. That had taken nearly a pint of Father’s blood, but they’d made it secure. And why were the Servants in the Manor at all? To protect Draco Malfoy, the idiot child who had refused to flee. 

_Father…_

His eyes were scanning the sea as it went by, fearing—as he had last night—that he would see something in the water. That he would see Father’s body floating there, staring into the blue heavens. 

_Please be alright._

He knew Father had been grateful he was there with him. And Mum hated that. Father was glad he wasn’t alone with just Mum for company in the endless tedium of the Reptile’s speeches and rituals. 

“How much farther?” He asked the driver, not certain of his syntax. He hadn’t studied Croatian much since they had stopped coming here. He was going on instinctual memory, feeling his way around the words. 

“Almost there,” the driver grunted. “Are you sure that’s where you want to go?” 

He felt uneasy as soon as the driver said this. “Yes,” he said. “That’s the right place.” 

_Where am I going?_

The driver pulled up, then pointed. “There,” he said. “That’s it.” 

He looked. They had stopped on the hard shoulder of a road running along between the mountains and the sea. “This is it?” 

The driver glanced at him. “This is where you asked me to take you.” 

“What—what is it?” 

The driver looked out at the sea. “Don’t swim here. People have died…” 

He unfastened his seatbelt and had the car door open within a heartbeat. The driver glanced back at him and pointed to the meter. 

_Fuck._

_I hate this._

He took out his wand. “ _Obliviate_ ,” he said. And then, with a deep breath, “ _Confundus._ What is your home address?” 

The cab driver, his eyes unfocused and his speech slightly slurred, said his address. He committed it to memory, repeating it several times. “Thanks,” he muttered, then, “go back to the Old Town to pick up another fare.” 

He got out and shut the door, and the taxi executed a highly illegal U-turn and headed back up the coast. 

He felt bleak and alien standing on this bare stretch of road beyond sight of human habitation. 

_Father._

There wasn’t even a safety barrier separating the road from the steep drop down to the water. He looked at rocks tumbling into the sea, and then saw a barren stretch of beach lying below. And on the beach, motionless, the tide lapping at his feet—

_Father_

He couldn’t get down there fast enough. The rocks were awkward, boulders, scree, and crashing waves. He Apparated and landed on the sand next to Father. 

“Father,” he fell onto all fours beside him. Father’s eyes were closed. “Hecate help me, Father—Father!” Father’s head was covered in blood. His robes were torn. He daren’t move him. He looked him over. He couldn’t see any visibly broken bones. In one hand there was the stub of a broken-off wand. 

“Draco,” he heard it, as faint as the crumpling sound of a piece of paper being crushed. 

He wanted to embrace Father but didn’t dare. “Are you alright?” 

Father smiled through cracked and bloody lips. “I got him,” he said. “I got Dolohov.” 

“Okay, good, good,” he muttered, but he wasn’t thinking of that now. He was thinking how he was going to get Father to a Healer, and fast. “Can you move?” 

Father struggled to sit up. A trickle of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m just weak,” he said, his voice as frail as a whisper. 

“I looked for you,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me? Have you been here all night?” 

Father was using all his energy to sit up. 

“Where are you injured?” He asked. Then he saw it. Father had sat up, leaving a patch of blood staining the sand. He swallowed, hard, and willed himself not to panic. He needed to be strong for Father now. Father’s robes were ripped open across his stomach and there, in his side, was a wound oozing blood. 

_Fenrir Greyback._

He closed his eyes, sat up and took his wand from his waistband. He cast a charm on Father to make him as light as a feather, stood up, and picked him up and slung him across his shoulder. He closed his eyes and Disapparated right in front of the house in the Old Town. But he was concentrating so hard on Apparating Father that he missed. He crashed into a wall and overbalanced. Father was less than half his weight, but he was still heavy. Not feather-light at all. 

_Fuck._

He laid Father down on the ground, propping him against the wall, and tried to take stock of where he was. Apparition could be disorienting, but right now he felt as if he had done a jump through time rather than space. He took several deep breaths and waited for the world to become clear. He was in a narrow alley, just across from their house. 

_Why is the door open?_

_That is our house, right?_

It was their house. He left Father and crept across the street to the living room window and looked inside. 

_Ginevra Weasley._

_Harry Potter._

He span away from the window, pressed himself against the wall. He thought Potter had seen him. His mind whirled. 

_Why is Ginny Weasley in my house?_

He didn’t have time. Potter could explain once he had Father inside. He went and as carefully as he could, picked Father up and slung him across his shoulder, holding him by his legs, and walked back through the front door. 

_Hang on._

Something wasn’t right. He had just pushed the door open and he was frozen half-in, half-out of the house and he could see a figure standing in the kitchen, straight and tall, wand out, looking into the living room. 

_What…_

He walked one or two more steps and another strange figure came into sight, just inside the living room which he could now see from this angle. 

_Oliver….Wood?_

A sense of immense strangeness descended on him. Why was the old Gryffindor Quidditch captain standing in his house in Dubrovnik with his wand drawn? He recognised Alicia Spinnett as the first person he had laid eyes on. 

_Potter._

_It’s Potter._

He drew his wand, there was no time. Quick as lightning, he cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on Spinnett, then, moving swiftly past her, at Wood. They both went down. He was in the living room now, just in time to see Potter spinning like a whirling dervish in the fireplace, green flames licking around him. He thought he caught Potter’s eye for a moment before he disappeared into the fire and was gone. 

He stood there, panting, Father heavy on his shoulders, staring at Ginny Weasley, who was staring at him in shock. 

She drew her wand. 

He pointed his. “ _Imperius,_ ” but he was shaking and it went wide.

“You’re under arrest,” she said. 

“Fuck off, Weasley,” he said, and shot a _Tantallegra_ at her, which missed. 

She leaped to the side and took refuge behind the sofa he’d overturned on Potter that one time. The sofa he’d vaulted over to escape Potter when he wanted to get those Daily Prophets off him. 

He unloaded Father onto the sofa, then stood in front of him. “Come out, Weaslette,” he said. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” 

She stood, and held up her wand, and tossed it to the other side of the room. 

_Er—_

“Play fair, for once in your life, Draco,” she said, coming out from behind the sofa and standing in front of him in the middle of the room. 

_Fuck._

_She’s good._

He lowered his wand. 

She smiled a fake smile at him. “I knew you wouldn’t curse a defenceless witch,” she said, and perched on one arm of the opposite sofa. 

He clenched his jaw. “You’d have made a good Slytherin,” he muttered, and stashed his wand in his pocket. 

She held up one finger and tutted. “If you want to bargain,” she said, eyeing his wand. 

_Fuck._

_Fuck my life._

She laced her fingers together around one knee and regarded him. 

He sighed and tossed his wand away. “Go on,” he said wearily. 

“Thank you,” she said. “For the use of your Floo.” 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m sure Potter will be very happy with my mother for company. She just _dotes_ on him.” 

_Of course, that’s actually truer than Weasley knows._

“Oh, my darling Draco,” she grinned. “We just sent a dozen Death Eaters back to your stately pile. Isn’t that their preferred haunt, after all?” 

He felt his jaw drop. 

“Harry sent me a Patronus just now,” she said. 

_No._

_No, he didn’t._

_No, tell me that’s not true._

“This is a surprise,” she said, her eyes glinting with a hard, wicked light. “What, did you think Harry _really_ liked you?” 

“I wasn’t wrong,” he said. “You should have been in Slytherin.” He was damned if he was going to lose face in front of Weasley. 

She sat back. “You know, the Sorting Hat told me the very same thing, all those years ago. And do you know, Draco,” she grinned wider as he winced at the use of his first name, “I’ve come to appreciate the skills of a Slytherin. They have a way of winning no matter the odds.” 

“Yeah, unless you have a crooked Headmaster who doles out points at the last minute to Gryffindor,” he retorted. “Ever notice how those _odds_ were stacked in your favour?” 

She laughed. “Come on, Drake. We’ve been over this a million times in the past few months, ever since most of your house came and joined my side.”

“I’m sure you have,” he muttered. “That was your stroke of genius, wasn’t it? Getting the Slytherins on your side.” 

She gazed at him. “And yet you’re the one left out in the cold. I spoke to Pansy, Malfoy. And Millicent and Greg and Vince.” 

“Don’t call them that,” he muttered. 

“Why?” She said sharply. “They’re my friends. _You’re_ the one who betrayed them. You do know that, don’t you?” 

He gestured at his father, who was currently bleeding into the upholstery. “I’d love to shoot the shit with you, Weaselette, but my father needs medical attention and this isn’t exactly a good time for me. Why don’t you have your people call my people?”

She raised her eyebrow. “I think you’ll find that my people are right here, Draco.” 

He looked around and he was surrounded by Dumbledore’s Army.

_Hecate’s hairy hump._

_This is_ not _—_

“They’re willing to forgive you, Draco,” she said. “I put my hand on my heart.” She stood up, and she actually did put her hand on her heart. “They know that you’ve been very unhappy with the Death Eaters.” 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Where did you come from, anyway?” 

She laughed and her eyes looked over his shoulder. He turned and saw Longbottom standing here. 

“Draco,” she said. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. 

“Malfoy,” she said. “Did you know I’m the seventh child out of six boys?” 

“I never cared to count,” he said. “But I’m sure it’s at least that many.” 

She pursed her lips. “My father was the seventh son out of seven boys.” 

He frowned at her, comprehension dawning. 

“They thought I would be a boy,” she said. “The seventh son of a seventh son. But I’m a girl. And here I am.” 

_Fuck._

She grinned. “Come on, Malfoy,” she said. “I know it didn’t work out with Harry. Actually,” she said. “Neville, do you have that thing Dean gave you?” 

Longbottom went over to her, digging something out of the pocket of his robes, and put it in her outstretched palm.

He felt very aware, suddenly, of how many people there were around him. He was surrounded. Trapped. Done for. All Father’s efforts were in vain. 

All Sir’s efforts were in vain. 

“Here,” she said, holding it out to him. “Does this look familiar?” 

He took it reluctantly, and a small glass vial fell into his hand. He looked at it, at the label which was half peeling off. 

_Amortentia._

He peered at it. From the tiny mouth of the vial he could see emerging, glinting in the light, a hair so light as to be almost transparent. 

“You did your best to make him like you, didn’t you, Malfoy?” Weasley said. 

The bottle fell to the stone floor with a tinkling sound of breaking glass. He thought he was going to faint. 

“I think you’ll just have to accept that he’s not the one for you,” Weasley said, almost kindly. 

He wanted to curse her. “Oh, you turn on the compassion just at the right moment, don’t you, Weasley?” He spat. “How about the last few months, when you dragged Potter’s name through the dirt insinuating he was involved with me?” 

She gazed at him. “I didn’t need to drag Harry’s name through the dirt,” she said. “He did that for himself. Remember,” she said, looking around. “How Lupin had this last-ditch idea, We’ll call it Potterwatch, and everyone can listen in and find out where the Chosen One is,” she waved her hands theatrically, then stopped. “No disrespect to the departed,” she said. “But that ship had sailed. Merlin, Malfoy, you must be the last person in wizarding Britain who’s still defending Harry Potter.” She leaned forward. “But then…. you do have something in common. You were both responsible for unleashing the forces of evil on a school full of innocent children.” 

He felt his face contorting into a scowl, a horrible mask of his own face, he tried for anger, but it was guilt and shame and he hated himself more than Weasley ever could. “Speak plainly.” 

“ _You_ let the Death Eaters in. _He_ let Voldemort in.” 

He heard his own gasp in the silence, but no-one else reacted. He had read it in the paper, but hearing it like that from Weasley herself… 

“The game’s up, Malfoy,” she said. “You’ve nowhere to go. Come with us,” she said, “and you’ll be tried in a fair court. Your father needs a Healer. Let’s go now. Don’t wait any longer.” 

He glanced at Father. He felt the tears slip down his cheeks. 

_This isn’t what Father fought for._

_This isn’t what Sir died for._

He had always known he was a failure. And now here it was, writ large in front of him. 

“Who gave him that Amortentia?” He asked. He turned around, looked at the Hogwarts students surrounding him. “Was it one of you? You don’t even know how—” He broke off. “You don’t even know what he’s going through.” 

Faces looked back at him impassively. Gryffindors. The ones he hated. Hated because he’d never been good enough. Never good enough for them. 

“None of us did it,” Weasley said. “It wasn’t any of us, Malfoy.” 

He knew he looked like the picture of defeat. He’d had the bottle of Amortentia with him. He thought it had been left behind in the bathroom when he rushed out to find out who was attacking Dolohov’s mansion. 

_Kazimir Dolohov?_

_Pansy?_

Both of them had been on the second floor of the house that evening. Either of them could have gone to use the toilet and found the bottle of Amortentia sitting there, lying in the porcelain shell tub where it had fallen from his hands… 

_Or it was in the pocket of my robes._

There had been several potions in the pockets of his robes. The Polyjuice potion. He’d given Potter his robes to wear. 

_I gave Potter the Amortentia._

And… and… Potter had taken his robes, Potter had taken the Polyjuice, an hour later he’d met up with Potter again, he’d shown him the wands, they had burned the wands, and Potter had kissed him in front of the fire.

And Potter had kissed him when he stood up and pulled Potter up off the floor 

And Potter had kissed him against the door when Kazimir Dolohov was on the other side. 

And Potter had kissed him in front of Yaxley. 

_That’s how he fucks me._

And Potter had kissed him against the door before they left the room where Yaxley was. 

And… Potter had come to him naked in the middle of the night and asked him to…

He thought he might be sick. In fact, his stomach heaved. 

_Potter took the Amortentia on his own._

_Potter found one of my hairs on my robes and he put it into the Amortentia and he took it._

Potter had cried in his arms. He had kissed Potter’s face. He had told Potter… he had told Potter…

_Potter was on Amortentia._

_He was on Amortentia the whole time._

“Alright, Weasley,” he said. “You win.” 

_Potter isn’t right._

_He hasn’t been all this time._

_He’s been erratic, out of control._

Potter took the Amortentia, and Potter didn’t like him, and Potter didn’t love him, and Potter had led Dumbledore’s Army to this house and the Floo connection and everything was over. 

“You won’t regret this, Malfoy,” Weasley said, waving, and around him people were moving, doing things, and hands were pushing him, leading him to the fireplace, throwing Floo powder, calling the name of his ancestral home, and he was being spun like laundry in the fireplace, green flames licking at his feet, smoke choking his lungs. 

Everything was done. 

Draco Malfoy was over. 

Draco Malfoy was done. 


	99. Reset This

**Harry**

He emerged, coughing, from the fireplace and stumbled out onto an expensive-looking carpet which was now covered in soot. He stood up slowly. To his surprise, the room was empty. The room he was in looked like a study. There was a huge desk, a wall covered in maps, a large table, and the walls were covered in glass-fronted cabinets thorugh which he could see an assortment of books, binders, magical objects and he knew not what.

“Mister Harry Potter—”

He jumped. The voice had come from near the floor, and he looked down to see the Elf he recognise as Snithwithington bowing deeply to him.

“Welcome back, Mister Potter,” the Elf said. 

“Er—” he hadn’t really expected to be _welcomed_ , per se. 

_I just sold your ruling family down the river._

_So you can put away the bunting._

A photograph on the desk caught his eye. He frowned and took a few steps closer to it. 

_That’s weird._

The photograph wasn’t moving. It was a Muggle photograph. And on top of that, it was strangely familiar. He went up to the desk and peered at it. 

_Aunt Petunia?_

Aunt Petunia coloured her hair, but it had originally been the same shade as her sister’s—orangey red. He stared at the photograph. Aunt Petunia was very young in it, early twenties at most. It was a formal portrait, the sort that he used to have taken every year when he was at a Muggle school. 

“Harry,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. He whirled around to see Narcissa Malfoy closing the door of the study behind her. He glanced at the photo, then at her, and she looked at it, then at him. But she didn’t say anything. She just walked toward him her her arm outstretched as if to shake his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. Narcissa Black.” 

“Er,” he shook her hand, feeling very odd, but somehow feeling it would be rude to refuse. “Hello.” 

“They’re downstairs,” she said. “The Ministry are at the gates. Are there any more?” 

He stared at her in confusion. 

“Quickly,” she said. “They won’t leave me on my own for long.” 

“Er—” he stammered. “I think there’s, er, a few more coming.” 

“Draco? Lucius?” 

“Er—” he seemed to be incapable of speech. 

“Are they safe?” 

Malfoy, with a bleeding Lucius Malfoy on his back. “Er—” he was sweating. He could feel it. 

The door opened and Dean Thomas entered and opened the double doors to the study wide. “Keep these doors open,” he said, taking a galleon out of his pocket and peering at it, then walking away. There was a sound from the fireplace and he turned to see green flames rising and a column of whirling smoke forming. 

_It’s Malfoy_

He couldn’t see Malfoy clearly yet, but he knew it was him. His heart started to pound. 

_I didn’t think I’d see him again._

_Certainly not so soon…_

Dean Thomas came back into the room and stood next to the fireplace as Malfoy appeared finally, staggered and stepped out onto the increasingly sooty carpet. Malfoy took in Dean Thomas, who had his wand drawn, then his eyes travelled to his mother and finally to him. Their eyes met. His heart lurched into his throat and stuck there. Malfoy looked quickly away again. 

“You’re both to come with me,” Dean Thomas said, looking from Malfoy to him, then down at his galleon. He was holding it with both hands and kept looking at it. “Mrs. Malfoy,” he turned to Narcissa Black. “Can you open the gates to let the Aurors in, please?” Dean looked at his galleon again. 

To his infinite surprise, Narcissa Black’s eyes flickered to him, as if looking for him to tell her what she should do. 

_Let the Aurors in?_

He nodded as subtly as he could. Dean hadn’t noticed—he was absorbed in the galleon. He realised Malfoy had seen what passed between him and his mother and Malfoy shot him a look of outrage, or loathing, he wasn’t sure.

Dean put the galleon away finally. “Just wait a minute,” he said. “Er, could you move out of the way, Malfoy?” 

Malfoy gave Dean a disgusted look and went to stand next to his mother, on the other side of him.

_This is so weird._

He didn’t understand what was happening in the slightest. 

_Why did Narcissa Malfoy say that stuff to me?_

_And why did she call herself Narcissa Black?_

_And why does Lucius Malfoy have a photograph of Aunt Petunia on his desk?_

The green flames began dancing again, and before long another body appeared. But this one was not standing up straight. It was hunched over as if it could barely stand. He recognised the long white hair which was being whipped around in the flames. 

_Lucius Malfoy._

He tumbled onto the fire surround and Malfoy was there in an instant to catch him. Narcissa Black joined him and together they half-carried Lucius away to the middle of the room and laid him on the floor. He couldn’t help watching. Lucius Malfoy was covered in blood. 

_He doesn’t look good._

_That’s putting it lightly._

“My father needs a Healer,” Malfoy said, standing up. “Now.” 

Dean glanced at him. “He can wait.” 

“No,” Malfoy said. “He can’t. He needs a Healer _now_. Let me go and send an owl to St. Mungo’s.” 

“You’re under arrest, Malfoy,” Dean said uncomfortably. “I can’t let you go running off to send owls.” 

He looked at Malfoy’s face, which was white with fear. There was blood on his hands and he hoped it belonged to Lucius Malfoy. 

“Let him go, Dean,” he said. 

Malfoy looked at him in outrage. 

“Or—” he glanced at Malfoy. “Let me go. I’ll send the owl.” 

Malfoy pointed a finger at him. “Shut your fucking mouth.” 

“Come on,” he said to Dean. “It will only take a second—”

“Stay out of this, Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “It’s nothing to do with you.” 

Dean raised his hands. “There’s no need to start a domestic,” he protested. 

“Let the House Elf go,” Narcissa Black said from the floor next to Lucius Malfoy. She was looking up at Dean. “My husband is going to die if he doesn’t receive treatment.” 

Dean bit his lip. “ _Muffliato_ ,” he muttered, then walked away, muttering into the galleon. 

Malfoy was back at his father’s side, kneeling on the floor next to him. He stood there in the middle of the room awkwardly. While he watched the fireplace, another person started coming through. Tall, heavily built. 

_Neville._

He felt a sense of relief, somehow, as Neville stepped out of the fireplace, shaking soot off his robes. Dean seemed to feel it too, because he immediately put the galleon away and went over. Neville clapped him on the shoulder. 

“You two,” Dean motioned at him and Malfoy. “Come with me.” He followed Dean and out of the corner of his eye saw Malfoy get up slowly and start following behind. 

_There has to be something…_

_Something I can do…_

He walked slower, hoping Dean wouldn’t notice. Dean turned around. “I won’t shackle you if I don’t have to,” he said. “So don’t give me a reason to. Just walk downstairs nicely like a good boy. Can’t Apparate or Disapparate in here, can you, Malfoy?” 

“No,” Malfoy replied dully. 

“Right,” Dean said. “No funny business.” 

“I gave myself up,” he pointed out to Dean. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean didn’t look at him. “Good for you, Harry.” They had reached the stairs which led down to the ground floor. Dean didn’t try to take those backwards. He turned around and walked down them normally. 

He turned to Malfoy, who looked at him suspiciously and kept walking. He had a split-second to talk to Malfoy before Dean noticed. He grabbed Malfoy and tried to whisper in his ear, but clumsily hit his mouth against the side of Malfoy’s head. Still, he managed to mutter, “Time Turner?” 

Dean whipped around. 

He grabbed Malfoy, put his hand over Malfoy’s mouth and pushed his face against it, so that from Dean’s angle it looked like they were snogging.

“Oi!” Dean shouted. 

Malfoy wound up and punched him in the face. 

He reeled away, his cheek on fire, holding his face. 

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!” Dean snapped, and hit both of them with the spell. He felt himself go rigid and immobile and nearly topple over if he hadn’t been standing next to the bannister. “Merlin, what is it with you, Harry? Don’t you know when to quit?” He muttered, and cast a levitating charm on both of them. He felt himself rise into the air and he floated down the stairwell in front of Malfoy. 

_Malfoy can Apparate in here._

_He did it before._

_He took me Side-Along._

Maybe not everyone could Apparate in here, but Malfoy definitely could. And Malfoy could do magic without a wand, as well. So Malfoy could dissolve the charms Dean had placed on him. 

_Malfoy’s bluffing._

_He’s going to do something. He is._

_Just wait._

So he waited. And waited. But nothing happened. He just bobbed along through the hair following Dean Thomas, unable to move or do anything. 

_Come on, Malfoy._

His face really hurt. Malfoy had really hit him hard. He was probably going to end up with a shiner. 

They were going along a hallway which he recognised as leading to the main, grander part of the house— specifically the enormous entrance hall. 

_They’re probably keeping the Death Eaters there, waiting for the Aurors._

Then he felt it. The iron grip on his limbs loosening. The Petrificus Totalus was slackening. He moved his arm, just slightly, to see if he could.

_Yep._

Then he felt two hands close around his upper arm and Apparition took him, squeezing him tightly, sucking the air from his body. Then it was over. He turned around and saw Malfoy standing there. They were in Malfoy’s bedroom. Malfoy was holding the Time Turner, tossed it around his neck and spun it. The room around him dissolved into a blur, but it was brief compared to the jump they had done before. When it stopped, he felt fine—not disoriented and dizzy as he had done. 

“You’re welcome,” he said. “For the idea.” 

Malfoy ignored him. He disappeared through a door and then came out holding a suitcase, which he tossed on the bed. He disappeared back through the door again. He went closer. It was a small room entirely filled with clothes. “Wow,” he said. “You have a lot of clothes.” 

Malfoy was taking things off hangers, a pile growing in his arms. “Excuse me,” he said brusquely, trying to get through the door with his armful. He stepped back and Malfoy pushed past him, went over to the suitcase and started stuffing the clothes into it. 

“What are you doing?” He asked, going around the other side of the bed. 

“What does it look like?” Malfoy said through gritted teeth. 

“Packing?” 

Malfoy went over to a chest of drawers and started rummaging through it, taking things out and putting them on the top, then gathering them in his arms and dumping them in the suitcase.

“You don’t need to rush,” he said. “You’ve got a Time Turner,” he pointed out. “You can take all the time you want.” 

Malfoy shot him a glance full of venom, then disappeared into the bathroom. 

He sat down on the bed. 

“Get off my bed.” Malfoy was back, his arms full of toiletries which he flung into the suitcase. 

He stood up quickly. 

Malfoy pulled the top of the suitcase over and tried to close it. It wouldn’t close. “Fuck,” he sat down with a huff of frustration, flung the lid back on the bed and started rearranging the contents of the suitcase. 

“When is it?” 

“Six hours ago,” Malfoy said shortly. 

“Malfoy,” he said. “Malfoy!” 

Malfoy glanced at him, then opened his eyes wide and leaned toward him. “There,” he said. “I’m paying attention to you. Happy now? What else can I do for you?” 

“Well,” he began. 

“No,” Malfoy said, now taking everything out of the suitcase. “That was sarcasm, Potter.” 

“Why do you have a Time Turner?” 

“Stop,” Malfoy said, “just stop.” Malfoy’s voice was thick. 

“Malfoy,” he said. “What have you been doing all this time? I mean, really doing? Why did you ask to stay with me in Gryffindor Tower?” 

Malfoy actually met his eyes now. For a moment he thought Malfoy’s eyes held sadness. “It’s too late now, Potter. You’ve blown your chances.” 

He frowned. “Why did you give me that Amortentia?” 

Malfoy reacted as if he’d been slapped. “I didn’t _give_ it to you. It was just in the pocket of my robes.” 

“Why did you have it on you?” He leaned forward. “Why did you have Polyjuice with you? You said you had Veritaserum as well. You just carry those around with you all the time?” 

Malfoy blinked. “They’re all commonly used in tradecraft,” he muttered. 

“What?” 

“Intelligence,” Malfoy said, folding clothes. 

_Intelligence._

“You’re a spy?” 

 _So Malfoy_ was _a spy…_

Malfoy placed a folded top carefully in the suitcase. “You could say that,” he said. 

He frowned. “So who are you working for? Our side or—or Voldemort’s?” 

_Those are the two sides._

_Right?_

“Neither,” Malfoy said, smoothing his hands over the contents of the suitcase. “We work for ourselves.” 

_Well… that figures._

He’d always known the Malfoys looked out for themselves. 

This time when Malfoy closed the suitcase it shut. He snapped the fastenings shut. He stood up, hefted the suitcase onto the floor. “The Malfoys,” Malfoy said. “The Blacks…” 

He frowned. “The Blacks?” 

Malfoy crossed his arms and looked down. 

“Malfoy,” he said. “There’s something you’re not telling me.” 

Malfoy’s silver eyes met his. He felt his stomach flutter. Malfoy just shook his head, then looked away again. 

He went around the bed so he was facing Malfoy. “What is it? What’s behind all this? You—Tell me why you’re really doing all of this.” 

“It’s too late, Potter,” Malfoy said again. “You can’t just turn around like this.” 

Malfoy started straightening out the bed covers. 

_He doesn’t need to do that._

_He’s just avoiding looking at me._

“Malfoy,” he said again. “Come on.” 

“You just expect to be forgiven,” Malfoy said, plumping pillows now. “Just like that? You expect to just erase what you did?” 

His heart was pounding. “ _You_ … forgive _me_?” He touched his face where Malfoy had hit him. 

Malfoy turned around very slowly. 

“I think that’s a bit rich,” he said. “Considering what _you’ve_ done. Considering what you _are_.” 

Malfoy trembled. “You’re going to feel very silly when that Amortentia wears off. I never heard of anyone dosing _themself_ with love potion. Surely only a madman would do something like that.”

“I think we’ve already established that I’m mad.” 

Malfoy’s face was white. He closed his eyes. “I can’t take any more of this.” Malfoy whispered. 

“Wait,” he said. “Look—Malfoy—let’s—let’s start again. Alright?”

Malfoy looked at him. 

He pointed to the Time Turner around Malfoy’s neck. “Let’s reset this. Redo it. Go back and change it. I want to—” he swallowed, terrified. His heart was pounding but he could tell Malfoy was about to walk out the door and he couldn’t bear to see him walking away again. “I want to—” he met Malfoy’s eyes and felt his insides turning to jelly. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so scared. “I want to know you. I want to get to know you.” 

A fine line appeared on Malfoy’s forehead, creasing it into a frown as delicate as filigree. “If you have any respect for me,” Malfoy said. “Any respect at all, leave. Now.” 

He felt as if he were falling a long way into an abyss with no hope of reaching the bottom. 

Malfoy had told him that he was adopted. 

_How is that possible?_

Malfoy had tried to tell him so many things, and he had refused to listen. 

“Please,” he heard himself whisper. 

“Get out!” Malfoy shouted. “Out!” 

And the next thing he knew, an unseen force was pushing him out. He felt as if he was being pushed backward by an enormous invisible hand, and he found himself, blinking, in the sunlight next to a hedge in a country lane. 

He recognised it. It was the lane where Malfoy had brought him after they escaped from the Hog’s Head, when Malfoy had parted the hedge and formally welcomed him into the Malfoy estate. 

He had walked into the Malfoy estate not expecting to come out again. He had expected to die, because he was going into Malfoy’s house with no wand. 

But instead… 

Something else had started, without him even knowing it. 

He put his hands against the dense hedge. He couldn’t see though it, it was so thick. 

Just down the lane was the field where he and Malfoy had really talked for the first time. 

It was as if every time he felt himself being drawn to Malfoy and he had clamped down on the feeling and pushed it away, it had the opposite effect and rebounded stronger and stronger until now… now he…

He sat down and leaned his back against the hedge. He closed his eyes. Last night he’d slept in Malfoy’s arms. When Malfoy held him, he hadn’t felt weak. Malfoy had seen him. Malfoy accepted him. He hadn’t wanted to feel that pain deep in his soul, but when he showed Malfoy, Malfoy felt it too. 

_I think I’m in love with him._

_I’m in love with Draco Malfoy._

*

He rang the bell. The front gates to the Malfoy estate towered over him. Within seconds Snithwithington had appeared. “Welcome, Mister Potter,” he said with his usual bow. 

“Er—” he felt a little uncertain about this. “Is Narcissa Black here?” 

Snithwithington bowed and disappeared. He wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no. He traced his finger over the carvings on the stone post which supported the gate on either side. 

“Madame Black will see you now,” he heard Snithwithington’s voice before he saw him. “Please to give me your hand, Mister Potter,” the Elf said. He did so, and the Elf Apparated him right into the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor. He supposed that was to save him the walk to the house, which would have taken at least twenty minutes up the drive. He recognised the entrance hall as the one he’d use to enter the house before, with Malfoy. 

“Please wait a moment,” the Elf disappeared again. 

The place actually smelled familiar now, in the way that people’s houses did once you got to know them. You always knew that scent walking in the door. The entrance hall was nice. It was posh like everything was in this house, but homely as well. It wasn’t overly large or cavernous. The light was warm, yellow and friendly. There were wildflowers in a vase on the round table which stood opposite the door. There was a wall of framed photographs along one wall. 

_Are those family photographs?_

To his surprise, they were all Muggle photographs. 

_That’s odd._

There was a large black and white photograph of a much younger Lucius Malfoy in a flowing robe with an open neckline, his long hair falling around his shoulders. He was holding a three or four year old Draco Malfoy in his arms and they were smiling at each other. They were standing in front of a tree covered in white flowers. The baby Malfoy had a handful of his father’s hair in each hand and seemed to be pulling on them teasingly.

_That’s cute._

The next one was of Malfoy on his own, perched on a child size broomstick and holding his arms out in the air as if he was practicing his balance. It was a candid photo and Malfoy was looking off into the distance. He looked about seven years old. 

The next photograph made him stop, lean closer. He took off his glasses, polished them, and put them back on. He was still seeing the same thing he had the first time. Lucius Malfoy, leaning on a wing chair, wearing Muggle clothing of the sort an old-style country gentleman might wear to go shooting or rambling. A three-piece tweed suit with plus-fours, long socks, and a flat cap. In one hand he held a pipe and in the other, he held the hand of the man sitting in the wing chair next to him, dressed in a similar outfit, looking relaxed and balancing a cup of tea on his knee with his free hand. 

The man was Remus Lupin.

_What the hell?_

He kept staring at it, and the longer he looked, the more certain he was that it was Remus Lupin. Both men were much younger in the photograph. They couldn’t be out of their twenties. Lupin looked younger than Lucius Malfoy. He recognised the wing chair—it was in the library where he had almost set Draco Malfoy on fire.

_It can’t be Remus Lupin._

“Mister Potter,” he heard the voice from the region of the floor and looked down to find Snithwithington again. “My mistress will see you in her study now. Please follow me.” He started following the creature toward the staircase, away from the wall of photographs. As he walked away, he noticed that there was a large empty space on the wall, where a photograph was visibly missing. 

_What was in that photo?_

His mind was in a whir over that photograph of Lupin. It didn’t make any sense. 

_Did Lupin have a twin brother?_

Maybe Lupin had had a twin brother who died in the first war.

_Romulus and Remus._

_See, that would make sense._

Maybe this Romulus Lupin had been a Slytherin who became a Death Eater—like Regulus Black. 

_Regulus._

_Romulus._

Even their names sounded similar. 

_Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?_

Lupin probably didn’t like to talk about it. It was painful for him. 

_Used to be._

_Lupin is dead, remember?_

It still hadn’t sunk in. None of it had. The Battle of Hogwarts felt like a lifetime ago, and yet at the same time so recent that the dead didn’t yet seem dead. 

He reached the top of the stairs and followed the Elf left down the corridor. He remembered this corridor. Malfoy had taken him this way when they were leaving Malfoy Manor the first time, when they’d ended up in pitch dark and Lucius Malfoy had appeared and he’d tried to curse him. The Elf stopped and knocked at a door, then faded away. 

Yes, they had definitely walked past this stretch of corridor. He had been trying to make noise to piss Malfoy off. 

He felt a squiggle of nervousness run through his stomach as he realised what he was about to do. 

The door opened to reveal Narcissa Black, as she had called herself when he’d come out of the Floo. She was tall, thin, and austere. She had the same hair colour as her husband and son, but her eyes were blue. “Harry Potter,” she said, extending her hand to him. “Narcissa Black. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

He shook her hand again. Of course she didn’t remember doing the exact same thing to him, because for her, it hadn’t happened yet. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, and he actually meant it, although he couldn’t account for that feeling logically. 

“Come in,” she said, standing back. “Please.” 

He went inside and she closed the door behind him. She went behind her desk and indicated he should sit on the opposite side, where there were two chairs. 

 _So… this is_ her _study._

He sat down, feeling a bit as if he had been summoned to the Headmaster’s office. 

“Would you care to take tea?” 

He noticed that there was a tea tray on the desk with two cups. “Er,” he said. “Thank you. Yes.” 

She poured the tea. It was steaming hot. She added milk and asked, “Do you take sugar?”

“Yes, two, please,” he said. 

She dropped in two lumps of sugar and passed the cup to him. It was so strange to be served tea by Narcissa Malfoy that he had to pinch himself. It hurt. He tried to take a sip of tea, but it was too hot. He put it down and managed to slop a bunch of it into the saucer. 

_Just calm down._

_And explain._

“I didn’t want to wait any longer,” he said. “I don’t know if Malfoy is still here, if he is I’ll leave right away, I promise—”

She stared at him. “As far as I know, you and my son are in Dubrovnik. I assumed you were from a future time.” 

“Ah—” He started to speak, then just stared at her. This was so weird. She was a Death Eater. And yet she was acting like it was perfectly normal for Harry Potter to walk into her house and have tea. “I am. Sort of. I’m just from this afternoon. I—Malfoy and I went back about six hours to avoid arrest. But he… was quite upset and I wasn’t sure if he would stop and tell you what’s going on. So I thought I’d better make sure. I didn’t want to wait any longer, so you have enough time to prepare.”

“Prepare.” Her posture stiffened. 

“I…” he looked at the tea. “I led Dumbledore’s Army to the Floo connection at your house in Dubrovnik.” 

She shifted ever so slightly in her seat. 

_Oh, Merlin._

He didn’t know how she would react. Curse him? Take him hostage? Maybe he would end up in that dungeon underneath the dining room where Luna Lovegood and Ollivander had been held captive. 

“What are the terms?” She was as still as a statue.

_Terms…?_

“Er…” he stammered. 

“Lucius,” she muttered, then stood up and paced in front of the fireplace. 

_It is?_

He heard an unexpected sound, then. It was so unexpected that he nearly jumped out of his seat in shock. It was a baby’s gurgle, which then turned quickly into crying. Narcissa Black went back behind her desk and leaned down, and he realised there was a bassinet behind there. She reached in and picked up a wriggling baby, which she put on her shoulder, at which point it immediately stopped crying. 

_She had a baby?_

He’d had no idea. He stared, trying to think back. He was one hundred percent sure he’d never seen Narcissa Black pregnant. 

_When was the last time I saw her?_

He’d seen her with the Death Eaters a couple of times over the past year. She’d been at that meeting in the dining room where Bertha Jerkins’ corpse had been suspended over the table. He’d seen her at one point with Malfoy in Diagon Alley at the beginning of sixth year. 

_I guess she was wearing long robes._

_Maybe she was hiding it under there._

Malfoy certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about having a baby brother. 

_Yeah, because you spent so much time chatting about Malfoy’s family life._

“Do you want to hold him?” 

He felt his jaw drop. “Sorry?” 

“Lynx?” She said, bringing the baby over to him. “Here.”

“Oh—I, er—” He felt a sense of mild panic. 

_Why is she giving me her baby to hold?_

He’d never held a baby before. “I might hurt it—” he protested. 

“Nonsense,” she said as she placed the baby on his chest. 

The baby was heavy, warm and floppy. It felt fragile, especially its big head which was resting against his shoulder. He cautiously raised his hands to hold it in place. He looked at it. It stared at him with black eyes. “Hello,” he said. 

Narcissa Black went back and sat down behind her desk again and took a sip of tea. 

He glanced at her desk. The photograph of Aunt Petunia was still there. 

_I have no idea what’s going on._

“Of course,” she said, “the very person who could talk Lucius out of it…” She sighed. “I’ve never been able to influence him. And the moment he realised I was trying to sabotage his plan the game was up and he was out the door. Did he get his revenge, then?” 

“I, er—he killed Fenrir Greyback,” he said, holding the baby more firmly as it wriggled and made a babyish gurgling sound. He looked at it again and felt himself smile. The baby twitched its mouth in response, as if it was trying to smile back.

She looked at her tea. “At a steep price for the rest of us.” She drained the tea cup and set it down. “So, tell me, Harry. What are the terms of your agreement with Dumbledore’s Army?” 

He floundered. 

_I betrayed him._

_I betrayed your son._

_We slept together._

_He comforted me._

_And then I got up in the morning and threw him to the wolves._

She pursed her lips. “I wish John had a chance to work with you as well. We tried to make sure Draco was prepared… as much as we could. But I can hardly blame you for lacking the skills when no-one took the time to teach you.” She might as well have been speaking Hindi for all he understood. She drummed her fingers on her desk. “What time are they coming?” 

“One in the afternoon,” he said, bouncing the baby a little. It seemed to like that. 

“Is that GMT?” 

He had rarely felt so stupid while talking to someone. “That’s the time they sent all the Death Eaters through,” he said. “In Dubrovnik. It was probably a bit later. Maybe closer to one-thirty.”

She turned the clock on her desk around so it was facing him. It was nine-thirty in the morning. “Two hours,” she said, and rubbed her temple with two fingers. He was sure he had seen Malfoy do the same thing. “I assume that Ministry forces will start massing at the gates?” 

“Yeah,” he said. The baby made a noise, jerked a bit, and then started crying. He panicked. “What do I do?” 

“Just rock him a bit,” she said, “pick him up. Yes, just like that. See? He’s fine. You’re a natural.” 

_I am?_

He lowered the baby into his arms. “You’re alright,” he said to him. “You’re alright. See?” 

“Did you come here to escape arrest?” 

He looked up. “Yeah.” 

She nodded, seeming satisfied. “It’s a good solution,” she said. “Probably the best outcome we could have hoped for, considering Lucius’ utter _fuck-up_ ,” she muttered. 

“The _best outcome_?” He burst out. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was she alright? Maybe Narcissa Black was as cracked as her sister Bellatrix, just better at hiding it. 

 _In that dream, Malfoy and I had a_ daughter _called Bellatrix._

He looked down at the baby. He was warm and comfortable to hold. 

_Who in their right mind would name their baby that?_

_Or Petunia for that matter…_

“I think so,” Narcissa Black replied. “You and Draco escape prosecution and are free to carry out your mission, which to be honest at this stage really can’t wait any longer. Lucius gets his revenge and will feel the consequences of his foolishness, but that is only right and proper. I cooperate with the Ministry and am instrumental in bringing the remaining Servants to justice. Added to the high-level mutiny, this makes my case even stronger. Thank you, Harry.” 

“Thank you?” He echoed. “You’re _thanking_ me? I—I literally just screwed you and your entire family over and you’re _thanking_ me?” 

She shook her head. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I know you wanted revenge on the Servants as well. Draco told me. It’s really neither of your fault that Lucius flew off the handle so spectacularly.” 

He shook his head. “What did he _do_? What you mean about a mutiny?” 

“Draco didn’t tell you?” 

“Malfoy said Dolohov was cooperating with the Ministry to round up the Death Eaters, so he could get a lesser sentence, or whatever.” 

She leaned forward. “Lucius let it be know at the Ministry that a faction of the Servants were dissatisfied. He cited poor treatment, lack of benefits—”

“Lack of _benefits_?” He repeated. “What are you _talking_ about? The Death Eaters are—” what was the word? “Zealots. They’re fanatical. They— _worship_ him. Or, they did,” he trailed off. The baby screwed up his face and looked like he was about to cry. He quickly bounced him until he looked calm again. His skin was the softest thing he’d ever felt. He looked up at Narcissa Black again. 

She raised one eyebrow in a very Malfoyish way. “Yes,” she said. “Some of them are. But not all. You can’t ask witches and wizards to risk their position in society—their livelihood—the safety of their families—for lofty ideals.” 

He frowned. “What do you mean?” 

_Is she defending the Death Eaters?_

He suddenly wondered if he should have come here at all. Maybe this was just a really, really bad idea. 

She blinked. “I _mean_ ,” she said. “The Ministry of Magic is a job for life. Only an idiot would risk their position without a guarantee of support.” 

He frowned. “I, er, never thought about it that way.” 

She sniffed. “Of course you didn’t. You’re too young to think that way. In any case,” she continued, “before long, there was Auror interest in the dissatisfied Servants. It wasn’t difficult to convince them that some Servants were on the point of mutiny. In fact, by that point the Ministry of Magic was held together by a thread largely due to unpaid wages.” 

“So it _was_ Dolohov,” he said. “Malfoy said that Dolohov had made a deal to get all the Servants into his house so that Dumbledore’s Army could catch them.” 

“I have to admit I didn’t take Dumbledore's Army particularly seriously at first… anyway, this is where Lucius comes in. The idiot went out and incapacitated every Portsmith in Britain, not that there are that many.” 

“What do you mean?” He adjusted the baby in his arms. He looked down. He seemed to have gone to sleep. 

“I mean,” she said, glancing from him to the baby and back again. Her austere face seemed to soften ever so slightly. “They’ve been trying to get through for days. But with no Portsmiths, they’ve been effectively cut off. A motley crew of untrained teenagers was, believe it or not, hardly the first choice to manage the arrest of Riddle’s Servants.” 

_Oh…_

_That… makes sense._

It _did_ seem strange that Shacklebolt would entrust the entire operation to Ginny, no matter how ‘great’ she was or whatever. “So Ginny got lucky,” he said. “Basically.” 

“Lucky? If you want to put it that way,” she said. “Lucius managed to destroy the Port and its maker on his way through. So you were all _lucky_ enough to be more or less stuck there.” 

“Why did he do that?” 

She stared at him. “I beg your pardon?” 

He felt uncertain suddenly. Was he supposed to understand? “Why did Lucius Malfoy destroy all those Portkeys?” 

She shifted in her chair, crossed one leg over the other. “Because the agreement was that Lucius, Dolohov, Nott and Parkinson be given an escape hatch when the arrests took place. But Lucius wanted didn’t want Aurors bursting in and interrupting. He wanted that moment for himself. You see?” 

He looked down at the baby again. “So that’s why we all ended up there. But…” he touched the baby’s head with one finger. “That plan only makes sense if you—or whoever—was _counting_ on Voldemort dying. But obviously, you were all counting on him living a long and murderous life. So forgive me if I have trouble believing your explanation.” 

He would give the baby back and leave. He’d done his duty by letting Narcissa Black know. Now it was time for him to go and… go and do what he needed to do. 

“You’ve had a difficult time,” Narcissa Black said. “Draco told me. And I saw what you went through in the forest. You need to take a break, Harry.” 

He looked at her. There was something about her nose and the shape of her face which lent itself to that impression he’d always had, that she was sneering in disgust at some bad smell. Her nostrils were high and flared, her eyebrows arched and her mouth rather downturned. But it seemed to be just the way her face was made. 

“It’s probably best if Draco carries on without you for a little while you recuperate. You can stay here if you like. I know an excellent Healer who is very discrete and would treat you in secret if you wished to go into hiding.” 

He picked the baby up and put it on his shoulder and stood up carefully. “Thanks for your offer,” he said, though he wasn’t sure why. He was actually more confused now than he had been before he came here, which he hadn’t thought possible. “But I need to…I need to do the right thing. Here’s your baby,” he said. “He’s really cute.” 

She stood up to take the baby back from him. “Isn’t he your godson, after all?” 

He stopped, still holding the baby, and looked at him. He had dark hair, and apart from that, no distinguishing features. He had no idea how old the baby was. He had no basis for comparison to allow him to tell how old a baby was. “Who is this baby?”

“Lynx Black,” Narcissa Black said, and he could hear a tinge of pride in her voice. “Last of his line. Our hope for the House of Black.” 

_Teddy Lupin has been abducted._

_That’s the next mission for Dumbledore’s Army, after we catch the Death Eaters._

“Why did you say he was my godson?” He whispered, cradling the baby and looking at its small, perfect features. 

“You don’t like the name?” She actually laughed lightly. “It’s rather traditional, I know. But John gave it his blessing. I promise you he did.” 

_John?_

_As in… Remus_ John _Lupin?_

He handed the baby back to her. Lynx curled up and winced as he left the warmth of his body, opening his mouth to cry. Narcissa Black quickly soothed him. 

_Why is there a picture of Remus Lupin downstairs?_

_Holding hands with Lucius Malfoy?_

_Antonin Dolohov was the one who killed Lupin._

_I remember._

“Lucius Malfoy tried to arrange a marriage for Malfoy,” he said quickly. “To Dolohov’s son.” 

She stopped rocking the baby and stared at him. “Say that again.”

“He’s called Kazimir Dolohov,” he said. “He’s a professional Quidditch player. I guess he’s about twenty-one or twenty-two. He started, er, courting Malfoy at Dolohov’s house.” 

She stared at him for a moment longer, then swallowed and busied herself with the baby again. But he could tell his words had hit home.

_I knew it._

There was a rift here. Narcissa Black had her own program, and Lucius Malfoy had his. Where that left Draco Malfoy, he wasn’t sure. But he did know one thing for certain: he had underestimated the House of Malfoy. And, apparently, the House of Black as well. He felt dizzy and his head was spinning. 

_There’s something else._

_There’s a reason why she’s acting like this toward me._

_She thinks I’m something I’m not. Someone I’m not._

“So, er,” he said. “Lucius must be very upset about Lupin’s death.” He waited, and simultaneously prayed he was wrong, and hoped he was right. 

He prayed he was wrong because everything he thought he knew had been gradually but relentlessly turned on its head, and it was frightening, and exhausting and disorienting. He hoped he was right, because—because—

_You hope you’re right?_

_What do you mean you hope you’re right?_

_You hope you’re right that Lupin was—_

_a traitor?_

_a spy?_

_You hope you’re right about that?_

_What the_ fuck _is wrong with you?_

No. He wasn’t going to berate himself for being wrong any more. For thinking the wrong thing or feeling the wrong thing. 

_I want the truth._

_I want the truth even if it hurts._

_I think I’m starting to find out the truth and that’s—_

_That’s what I want to know._

_It’s not that I hope I’m right. It’s that I hope I’m on the path of truth._

Narcissa Black stared at him and shook her head. “Oh, Harry,” she said, and several tears fell from her eyes and onto her pale cheeks. “What are we going to do without him?” She cradled the baby tightly and the tears streamed down her cheeks. “What am I going to do without my best friend, John Remus Lupin?” 

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. He didn’t know if he was angry or sad or just in shock. “I don’t know either,” he admitted. 

She put the baby down in the bassinet, wiping tears from her face, and turned back to him again, clasping her hands. “Excuse me,” she said. “That was unseemly.” 

“That’s, er, that’s okay,” he muttered, feeling awkward. “I’d better go,” he said. “I just wanted to ask you something.” 

“Yes?” She said, hovering nervously, rather like Malfoy did sometimes. It was the first time he’d seen her porcelain composure seriously rattled. 

He pointed. “Why do you have that picture of my aunt on your desk?” 

Her head snapped to look at it so rapidly he feared she’d get whiplash. “Oh,” she said. “I… maybe I should have put that away.” 

“Lucius Malfoy is gay, right?” He knew he was probably being extremely rude, but he couldn’t help himself. 

She looked at him. “Were he a Muggle, I expect that is how he would describe himself, yes,” she said cautiously. 

“So are you a lesbian?” 

She looked at him for several long seconds in puzzlement and then, strangely, smiled. “Yes,” she replied. “I am, actually.” 

“I left something at your house in the future,” he said. “I came through the Floo with it, but I put it down on your desk and then you came in and introduced yourself to me. Then Dean tried to arrest me, so I couldn’t take it with me. Could you send it to me by owl post?” 

“What is it?” 

“It’s a leather folder,” he said. “My aunt gave it to me. Written on the front it says, The Romance of Pet and Nara.” 

_And you must be Nara, right?_

Narcissa Black put her hand to her mouth. After a silence she said, “Where shall I send it?” 

“Well,” he said. “I’m not sure exactly. But I’m sure it will be in the Daily Prophet. Where Harry Potter is imprisoned.” 

She nodded. 

He turned to go. Then he paused and said, “If you see Malfoy, could you tell him that I’m sorry? About everything?” 

“I would gladly,” she said. “But I received a note from him this morning. I think he visited to pick up a few things.” She sighed. “Well, he seems to have deduced that I hid the mutiny gambit from him. I just didn’t want him worrying and getting distracted. You two had enough to be getting on with on your own. But he figured it out and he’s not happy with me. He’s gone off on his own, Harry,” she said, looking at him. “And I don’t think he’s coming back.” 

He nodded, slowly. “Right,” he said. “Let’s, er. Hope that’s not the case.” 

“Indeed.” 

“Well, bye,” he said. “And take care of—the baby.” 

“We will,” she said, raising her hand as if in farewell. 

He turned and walked out of the room. 

_She thinks I’m on her side._

_She thinks I’m working for her._

_What gave her that idea?_

Or, more accurately, _who_ gave her that idea. He knew the answer, although it was an answer that just asked more questions. 

He walked down the hallway toward the staircase. He could smell wood polish. The floors were very shiny—the Elves must have been polishing them. The windows were open to the spring air and there was climbing honeysuckle growing on the wall outside. Fronds of white flowers kept being blown in through the window by the breeze, bringing a sweet scent which reminded him of Malfoy. 

_I’m going to the Ministry of Magic to turn myself in._

It was time to face up to what he had done, or hadn’t done, at the Battle of Hogwarts. He’d started it, after all. It was only right that he take responsibility for that. Whatever that might mean for him in the future. 

He felt a little light-headed. 

Everything had changed. The world had been turned inside out and so had he. He knew it would never go back to the way it was before. He didn’t understand everything. Not yet. 

_But I think I’m on the right path to find out._


	100. Black Fire Opal

**Draco**

Potter was gone. He’d been so angry he’d pushed him off the grounds and right through the wards. Like a reverse Apparition. He was alone in his bedroom. He sat down on the bed.   
****

He was furious with Potter. Potter had come to him in the middle of the night to cry and be comforted. Potter had slept curled up in his ams, and then made him breakfast. And then… the minute his back was turned, when he went to find his injured father, Potter turned around and sold him out to Dumbledore’s Army.

He was angry at Potter, but he was angrier at himself. 

Potter had sat back and let Ron Weasley humiliate him in front of all the Servants and Dumbledore’s Army and Pansy. 

_No, Potter didn’t just sit back._

_He actively participated._

_He called me a bog-standard Death Eater._

He sniffed. He might have been a Death Eater, but he’d never been a bog-standard _anything_ , thank you very much. And Father had overheard the whole thing. He’d been sitting right there. So now, Father _knew_ he had been lying. He’d seen the evidence of it right there in front of his face. 

_Thanks, Potter._

_Thanks a lot._

The worst thing was that after Potter had done that, he had let him in again. He’d let Potter come crying to him and he’d… felt even more in love with Potter than before. He had loved Potter _more_. 

_That’s not right._

_That’s just not right, Draco._

He had trusted Potter, from the beginning. He had been trained all his life to trust Potter. Trusting Potter was why he was here at all. 

_Well, yeah, but…_

It wasn’t just his training and his mother’s plans. He wanted to trust Potter. It had felt natural. Potter was the good guy, he admired him, he wanted to be more like him, and he wanted Potter to like him. So he trusted him. 

_But that was not…_

_Potter didn’t trust_ me. 

 _Potter didn’t_ like _me._

And he had just laid himself out in front of Potter as if to say, _Hey, look, I love you and you can trample all over me if you like, I deserve it!_

Because he didn’t like himself, and he was bad, and if Potter punished him, then he deserved it. 

He stood up slowly and went into the ensuite. He picked up a silver-backed brush which was lying on the sink surround and started brushing his hair. 

_I wanted him to like me so much… I was willing to put up with anything._

_Any abuse was worth being liked by Harry Potter._

He looked at his features in the mirror. Father thought he had made himself look too feminine, but he liked looking like this. He liked feeling pretty. That was what he liked to feel. 

_If I hadn’t changed my face, would Potter have been attracted to me?_

_If he hadn’t hit me in the face with that Sectumsempra, would he have ever kissed me?_

The curse hadn’t just hit his chest. It had hit his face, too. 

_Dittany wasn’t strong enough for what you did to me, Potter._

_They had to do major reconstructive spell work._

He’d begged them. _If you’re going to fix my face, why not improve it?_ They agreed in the end. The changes took place slowly. It took about a year. 

_I always wanted to be beautiful._

_Who doesn’t?_

He put the hairbrush down. Potter had called him vain. He supposed he was. If he were more confident… He shook his head sadly. 

_Potter wanted to blame me for everything._

_He wanted to blame everyone else, too._

Potter might be ill, but he had to be responsible for something, at some point. It couldn’t always be someone else’s fault. And he couldn’t keep taking the blame for everything that Potter wanted to pin on him. 

_Did Potter take the Amortentia because he wanted to cover up the fact that he was attracted to me?_

_So he could blame the potion, instead of facing his real feelings?_

Potter had stared at him, wide eyed, desperate. _I want to know you. I want to get to know you._

_Let’s start again._

_Let’s reset this. Redo it. Go back and change it._

He opened the drawer where he had found the choker necklace earlier. There was more jewellery in here. Stuff he had bought but never dared to wear. 

_You can’t do that, Potter._

_You can’t just erase the past or forget about it and hope it goes away._

He lifted out a silver chain with a pendant. The pendant was silver and set with a black fire opal half the size of his palm. This had belonged to his grandmother, and Father had given it to him when he noticed how much he liked jewellery. He put it around his neck. 

_Gorgeous._

He had taken a shower and changed his clothes after Potter left. He’d picked an outfit all in form-fitting black, which he felt was appropriate for the work he would be doing. His top had leather inserts on the shoulders and sleeves which he personally thought were pretty cool. And he’d chosen boots in black napa leather, because trainers just didn’t set the right tone. The opal just finished everything off perfectly.

He left the ensuite and surveyed his suitcase. He had everything, didn’t he? He went back into his walk-in wardrobe and selected a black all-weather cloak with a hood. It was made of wool and was lined in blue silk. Perfect for when the weather got colder… he stopped, the cape folded over his arm. Hanging in the wardrobe, shimmering brightly, was a cloak he had never seen before. He touched it. The texture was silky, more than silky—it flowed and pooled like water rather than fabric. 

_Where did this come from?_

He took it off the hanger and looked at it, turning it around. He looked in the mirror, holding it up against his body.

_Oh!_

It was Potter’s Invisibility Cloak. He must have left it here that first night they stayed here, before they went back in time to the safe house. 

He hung it carefully back on the hanger, then changed his mind. He took it back with him into the bedroom and opened his suitcase, placing it carefully inside. Then he sat down at his desk, pulling a quill and two scrolls of parchment from a drawer. _Dear_ , he wrote, then put the quill down. 

He sighed heavily, stood up, and walked out of his room and down the hallway. He was sweating slightly with nerves. He reached the door to Mum’s bedroom and knocked quietly. “Andromeda?” 

He heard Mum’s voice from within. He opened the door and let himself in, closing it behind him. The early morning light was filtering through the curtains into Mum’s enormous four-poster. She was sitting up against the headboard with a cup of tea in her hand. “Draco?” She said. Her voice was calm as always, but he detected the underlying alarm which she must feel. 

She put the tea down as he went closer, because he really needed a hug. He sat down on the edge of the bed and put his arms around her. She embraced him tightly.

_We got on when I was a little kid._

_But recently…_

He’d been resenting her more than anything else for some years now. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. But he didn’t _want_ it to be that way, it was just that she had put so much pressure on him that he knew he would never be good enough, and… 

“What’s wrong?” She asked. “You’re not injured?” She felt his arms and shoulders as if to reassure herself he was whole. 

He shook his head. Next to her on the bed was a bassinet. “Is that…?” 

She nodded and leaned over to it. “He’s just had his bottle. I think he’s asleep.” 

He crawled around to the other side of the bassinet and sat down against the headboard. He looked inside. The baby was still so small. He reached inside and carefully reached under the baby’s head and legs and picked him up, cradled him against his chest. “There you are,” he said. “You’re with your cousin Draco now. Aren’t you?” 

Mum smiled. “Did John tell you? He wanted you to be godfather to the child?” 

He shook his head, then looked down at the baby. “I’m your godfather. See?” 

“Harry is also godfather,” Mum said. 

He held the baby up and smelled him. “He smells nice.” 

“I never thought I’d be raising another child,” Mum said. “Not at forty-three.” She sighed. 

He nodded slowly. “Father said…” he trailed off, then began again. “He wanted to marry Sir and have Lynx be their son.” 

She nodded. “I hoped Lynx would keep him here. I told you that.” She sighed again. “But I think with John gone, he’s lost interest.” 

He felt a stitch in his chest. He held the baby tighter. It was tiny, and all alone, and would never know the mother and father who brought him into the world. “What did you plan to happen?” He asked. “What was supposed to happen, if Sir didn’t die?” 

She put her hand on his arm. “It’s best not to invest too much in plans,” she said. “The future can divert into so many unforeseen paths.” 

“Come on,” he said. “Admit it. The scion would be lost to you. Raised among the Light… what good could that do you? How much could Sir influence—I don’t understand what the point was.” 

“You are thinking too much about the way things _were_ in the past and the way things _are_ now. You take too much for granted,” she said, looking at him steadily with her dark blue eyes. “Change is coming. It’s too soon to see exactly what form that will take. But mark my words, Draco, this is but the beginning.” 

He looked down at the baby, still asleep. He touched his tiny fingers. “I don’t understand.” 

“Neither do I,” she replied, with that serene tone to her voice that he often found maddening when she started answering questions like this. “Understanding is an illusion. Control is an illusion. Both are paths to hubris and hubris leads to downfall. You have only to look at Riddle to see that.” 

He looked at her. “Do you care if the House of Black is on the side of Light or Dark?” 

“You know the distinction is artificial,” she said. 

“Yes,” he replied. “But real, political power is now organised around the concept. Isn’t it?” 

She looked at him, looked at the baby in his arms. “I don’t believe it will endure,” she said. “Within your lifetime, I believe there will be a change. Dark and Light did not exist in my great-grandmother’s time, and I don’t believe it will exist in your great-granddaughter’s.” 

He snorted. As if _he_ was going to have children. Whom with? 

“The House of Black _will_ endure,” she said with finality. “No Schism, no war, no Light mage can wipe us out.” 

He looked down at Lynx and felt the stitch in his chest grow more painful. “Father told me that he agreed to marry you on the condition that I belong to the House of Malfoy,” he said. “That I be the scion of Malfoy.” 

“Yes,” she said, her tone questioning. 

“So…” he whispered. “I was good enough for that. But for the House of Black you had to have a real baby.” He shifted Lynx onto his shoulder. It wasn’t the baby’s fault. A child couldn’t choose what circumstances it was born into. 

“What do you mean, a _real_ baby?” His mother said, an edge in her voice. “You were a _real_ baby. Whatever can you mean by that?” 

“You know what I mean,” he said, turning to her. The stitch in his chest hurt when he breathed. “You were happy to go with the old ways to find an heir for the Malfoys. You didn’t mind that I wasn’t born of a Malfoy. But for your own family, you had to have an heir born of the Blacks.” 

She stared at him. 

“It’s true,” he said. “Admit it. Lynx is better because he’s a real Black.” 

She shook her head. “No, no that’s not true.” 

“Then why,” he struggled to keep his voice under control. He didn’t want to upset Lynx. “Why did Sir have to go and be with that Nymphadora woman?” 

She looked back at him, her lips slightly pursed. 

He sat up and put the baby back in the bassinet. He turned to Mum. “You know Sir hated it, Father hated it,” he spat. “Why did you make him do it? If I’m just as good as Lynx, why didn’t you go and find another baby to adopt as the scion of Black?” 

She shook her head slowly. “Draco…” 

“Just admit it,” he said. “You say you want to keep the old ways. You say you’re traditional. But when you look at me you see me for what I am.” 

“No,” she said. “No.” 

“Yes you do.” 

“Draco, sometimes I really think it was a mistake sending you to that school,” she snapped, then pushed the covers back and got out of bed. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Come over here,” she said, “I don’t want to disturb the baby.” She sat down on the window seat. He joined her, feeling prickly and uncomfortable. “You never talked like this when you were younger,” she said. “It’s because of that school. It’s put all sorts of ideas in your head. Not to mention with all the cheironomy, your natural magic skills fall far short of where they could be. If we’d had Harry, I would _never_ have sent the two of you there—”

“Yeah, but Mum,” he said. “It’s not just Hogwarts. _Everyone…_ ” he slumped. “Everyone goes on about how Muggle-borns should be equal. But there is a difference in how they’re—in how you’re seen. The fact they keep _saying,_ Oh, we must make them equal…” 

“You’re not Muggle-born!” She hissed. “You’re a foundling. End of story.” 

“But there aren’t any more foundlings,” he said uncomfortably. 

“Because we are the only family in England who still keeps the traditional ways and Draco, you are every bit as much a Malfoy as Lynx is a Black."

_I don’t believe you._

“Don’t let all of that talk about Muggle-borns distort your thinking. We want nothing to do with that system of—of manipulation.” 

He had heard all of this before, but it still hurt. It had always hurt.

“I tried to protect you from all of that,” she said. “When you were a child. But eventually… you had to go out into the world and…” She broke off. 

“It had to be a secret,” he said. “So I couldn’t talk about it with anyone, or…” 

“But these things are secret now. Forgotten on purpose. There was a law,” she said, “but even that was quietly erased. Why have a law against a practice no-one remembers, or should I say, has chosen to forget?” 

Her explanations always took into account the grand sweep of history. Never the small and personal things, like how he had learned to speak against Muggle-borns, always terrified somewhere deep down that someone would find out he had been born to a Muggle family as well. 

“I’ve been lying to you,” he said heavily. “I’m not friends with Potter.” 

She had been looking out the window with a concerned crease in her forehead. Now she looked at him, silently, as if she wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly but didn’t want him to clarify, for fear of having the message confirmed. 

“I never was,” he said. “We’ve been enemies for seven years at school. He hates my guts. And I… hated his guts, too.” 

She blinked.  

“Sir lied,” he said in the same heavy voice, as if it was going to sink through the floor and into the earth. “He lied for me. He tried to help me, convince me to go over to the Light.” 

“Then why,” she said in a voice as thin as paper. “Did you join the Servants?” 

He leaned his head against the glass. “To avoid Potter.” 

“To avoid Potter,” she muttered to herself. “To avoid Potter. So that charade at Malkin’s dress shop last year. That was entirely of your invention, was it? And Harry knows nothing. Knows nothing of John. Knows Nothing of us. .”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I let you down.” He stared out the window at the grounds. It was so beautiful here. He understood why Father never wanted to leave. Here, the world was simple. 

She stood up, went over to the bed and gathered up Lynx into her arms and came back toward him. “John once told me,” she said, rocking the baby back and forth, “that he didn’t believe children should be used as weapons of war.” She closed her eyes. 

_Mum…_

He put his arms around her and the baby. “Don’t cry,” he said. “It’s alright.” 

“I’m sorry, Draco,” she said. “That you had such a—burden to carry.” She sat down on the window seat again. “So what happened with you and Harry,” she said quickly, her tone more businesslike now. “If you don’t—get on, how have you managed all this time?” 

“Sir suggested Potter save my life,” he said. “So there would be a reason for me to stick with him.” 

“A shrewd idea,” she agreed. She still seemed a little shell-shocked by his announcement. 

“That worked,” he said. “And since then…” he dropped his gaze to the upholstery of the window seat. “We started to get on better. I think. I don’t know. I… like him. Er, romantically.” 

She frowned. “You _like_ him? You just told me you hate each other.” 

He played with the opal pendant, gazing into its iridescent depths.

“Does he treat you well?”

He shrugged miserably. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. He’s… an idiot.” 

‘It certainly does matter,” she objected. 

“But I… what right do I have to complain… I’m a Death Eater. I’ve done things that hurt people. And not for any good reason. Just because I was too much of a coward to get out…”

“Apologise,” she said sharply. “Make what restitution you feel necessary. But don’t make yourself a punching bag thinking that will purge you of guilt. Others may never forgive you, Draco, but it won’t matter what they do if you never forgive yourself.” 

He looked at the ground. “I don’t know how I can do that,” he muttered. 

"Make that your work," she said. "Because you won't be any good to us until you do. Or yourself, I should add. All you'll do is cause yourself more pain." 

_I don't know._

_I don't know at all._

"What about Potter?" He asked. He wanted her to tell him that Potter was okay to love. And that he should Owl Potter right now. But he knew that she wasn't going to do that. And he knew that that would not be a good thing for him to do.

“Harry Potter has been trained to believe that he is more or less the centre of everything,” she said. “But he’s going to start realising he’s just a small cog in a much, much bigger machine.”

He stroked Lynx’s soft head. He was awake now, large dark eyes staring around at the two of them. “Maybe he’s already started to realise,” he said. “I’m going to leave and go take care of my mission,” he said. He pulled out of his pocket a piece of parchment. “Here are the safe house dates, updated since our stay.” He placed it on the cushion between them. 

“Good,” she said mildly. “And what about Riddle’s death? Did you figure out how they managed that? John really did his best but Harry became very non-communicative toward him.” 

“I think he did that toward everyone,” he said. “No, I didn’t find out. The whole week was basically pointless, Mum. Potter betrayed me in the end. He told Dumbledore’s Army about the Floo connection with the Manor. In about five hours they’re going to bring a dozen captured Servants through your study.” 

Her composure didn't budge. “Anything else I should know?” 

“Father’s injured. Pretty badly.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I fucked everything up, Mum. Badly. Really badly. The only good thing I managed to do was claim Number 12 Grimmauld Place for you.” 

She squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I suppose I… I need to work on that.” 

He kissed her cheek and the top of the baby’s head. “You’ll be alright?” 

“We’ll survive,” she said. “We always have.” 

He stood up. “Bye,” he said, and he walked out the door. 

He was leaving. He didn’t think he was going to come back. Not any time soon. 

_I’m going to take care of those few things for Mum._

_My mission as she calls it._

_Ha._

_And then I’m going, but I don’t think I’ll be leaving Britain._

_I’m going to find my birth family._

He walked down the hallway. The scent of wood polish and honeysuckle came to him again. This time it didn’t just make him think of Sirius. It made him think of all the losses they’d sustained. Sirius and Bellatrix and Nymphadora Black, and John Remus Lupin, and that was just the start. He didn’t know why it had to be like that.

It made him think of those lost futures, which never came to pass. Mum and Petunia Evans, Father and Sir, he and Potter. He didn’t understand why it had to be like that. 

It made him think of those lives that never happened, like what if Lynx Black’s parents hadn’t been killed. Like what it would have been like if Mum hadn’t found him, and instead he had been left with his Muggle family and raised by them and had received a Hogwarts letter when he turned eleven, like everyone else. If he had never become a Malfoy and had never had spells done on him to make him look like a Malfoy and if he hadn’t been given this name, Draco Malfoy. He didn’t understand about that at all. 

_Understanding is an illusion_

But he still hoped that in time he would start to understand. 

At least a little bit. 

_It starts with me._

_Whatever will happen, it starts with me._

 


End file.
